Chicken Soup
by streco
Summary: The year of 1992. Mark's still alone, Collins has a secret, Maureen and Joanne are fighting... and Roger has to raise a child on his own. [Roger, some OCMarkMaureenJoanne, Collins]
1. Dying

Chicken Soup

**A/N:** I don't know what inspired this story, really, I just wanted to write a story about the next year of their lives.

My first attempt at a many-plotted story. :)

_There's a shade come over  
__this heart that's coping  
__with laying down to rest.  
_"Dying" Five For Fighting

The rain pelted down on the tall, hunched form of the man struggling down the street—in his hand he clutched an immature pumpkin-shaped Halloween trick-or-treating container. Though it was Halloween, he was pretty sure he wouldn't be mistaken for a trick-or-treater. He hadn't even seen many kids outside, just because of the terrible weather.

"That's Halloween," he muttered to himself. The fact that it was unfair suddenly struck him—there was no rescheduling Halloween. Sure, some kids might go the night after, but people might not be handing out candy then. And the next day of school was never canceled for the kids, so they had to be home early.

Raindrops trailed down his forehead and onto the bridge of his nose, where they made their way to the tip and then dripped off. His long coat was hunched over his shoulders and now, he noticed, his little pumpkin was filling up with more water by the moment.

The cemetery was as grave as usual, and he didn't care about the odd glances he was getting from children double-dog-daring each other to go in and kick a tombstone. "It's bad luck to visit someone on Halloween, mister," said one kid, his white-blonde hair down in his face. "Just thought you should know."

Any other day, Collins would've loved this warning and probably given the kid a clap on the back, but tonight, his eyes reduced to slits and he bore his teeth, his hands balling into fists. "Thanks, kid, but I'll be okay," he snapped, and then continued into the darkness.

Censor lights that were attached to various street lights flickered on and showed him the path, but did not help much—twice he almost tripped on roots that seemed to be pulling themselves up from the ground, telling him to go back. The trees were trying to tell him something.

The cold winds licked his shoulders and his body gave an involuntary shudder. _Angel wouldn't want to hear this_, said a soft voice, coming and going with the breeze. The trees swayed in his direction, the world seemed to close in. _This is not what Angel wants to hear on this anniversary._

"She would want to know as soon as possible, no matter what day it was," Collins mumbled.

Once again the gentle wind nipped at his ears, and he pulled his coat closer to his neck. The coat that was, day by day, getting baggier. The coat that Angel gave him. The coat that he'd clutched at her funeral—

He shouldn't be out in these conditions, he thought, as he wrung the handle of the pumpkin basket, he shouldn't be out in the cold.

"Collins?"

Collins squinted—he didn't have his contacts in—and saw a small frame of a woman before him. Her curly brown hair was now nearly straight because of the downpour, and her voice made her sound like she had a cold. "Maureen?" Collins asked, unsure—every Halloween, Maureen wore her catsuit. Now she was wearing a jacket and jeans.

"Hey, baby," she whispered, and wrapped her arms around Collins. "How are you?"

"Uh—fine," Collins lied, keeping his voice soft. "Could I—" he motioned to the headstone he'd been looking for. "Just—could—"

Maureen looked puzzled, but then she caught on. "Oh, yes! I'll leave... I think we're all getting together at Mark and Roger's tonight—should I count on seeing you there?"

Closing his eyes, Collins chewed on this thought in his mind before deciding, "I think I'm just going to hang out at home, okay, Mo?" he asked, trying to keep the tears out of his voice.

"That's perfectly fine," Maureen said softly. "I'll see you later, okay, honey?"

"Bye, Maureen."

Turning back to the tombstone, he took in a shuddery breath and got to his knees, oblivious to the mud he was now going to be covered in. He laid his head against the cool granite and stroked it, begging some form of Angel to greet him, begging to smell her perfume, begging for anything.

"I went to the doctor's today, Ang," he whispered, and pulled the pumpkin closer to him. He took a lily out and placed it on top of her grave. Next, he pulled out a piece of wet paper, trying not to tear it, handling it with great care. As he was laying it down it next to the lily, a small tear formed in the corner, and at that time, the tears cascaded down his face.

"It's not looking good, love," he admitted, and then he rested his face against the tombstone again. He ran his fingers over Angel's name, kissing it, running his tears down it. When he pulled back, his body let loose a strangled cry so loud that he hoped the kids at the entrance had heard him. He hoped they could feel his pain.

Staring at the stone, he exhaled and shook his head, laying it back down on top of the stone, knowing that he could fall asleep right then and there, if he wanted to.

"Angel, I'm dying."

**A/N:** I understand that it's short, but it's just a prologue really.

This is not going to be a huge humor fic, more of a realistic post-RENT story with a lot of plot lines. Since _Cuffed _is over, and TLB's almost done, I decided I would start this and see where it went.

Review?

–Steph.


	2. Give Me Novacaine

_Drain the pressure from the swelling,  
__this sensation's overwhelming.  
__Give me a long kiss goodnight  
__and everything will be alright.  
_"Give Me Novacaine" Green Day

"November 1st, nine PM, eastern standard time. Well, 1992 has really been a drag until now..." Mark mumbled to himself, and then stopped as his camera did as well. Sighing, he wound the small arm back up and shook his head. "This is useless. Mark, you've never gotten anywhere filming shit."

The lens of his camera became fogged with his breath—Alphabet City was incredibly cold for only the beginning of November. He pulled his sweater closer to his body and buried his face into his scarf, and then whipped out a tissue to wipe the lens with. In his head ran a list of things he should probably do—go back to the loft and check on Maureen and Leah, or maybe stop by the hospital to see Mimi.

He put his camera in his messenger bag and found his crudely locked-up bike, looking like someone had tried to steal it. In moments he was riding his bike back to the loft, the cold air whipping at his face. Even with glasses splotched with rain, he managed to make it back to the building, and, taking the steps two at a time, into the loft.

The first sight to meet his eyes made him peaceful immediately—Maureen had little Leah tight in her arms; small, harmless Leah, innocent Leah, HIV positive Leah. The small girl looked like a young, female version of her father, even though she was barely six months old. The one thing she had of her mother's were her eyes; they were the deepest most chocolate brown, possessing that same sparkle that her mother's did to this very day, dying or not.

"Say hi to Uncle Marky, Leah," Maureen cooed to the baby, and he grinned and scooped his goddaughter into his arms.

"Hi, Lee," Mark said as he pulled the young girl closer to her, snuggling with her. "How's my favorite niece today?" he kissed her forehead and pulled some of her blonde hair out of her face, staring intently into her amazing eyes. "You're a daddy's girl, aren't you?" he asked, and then he kissed her once more before handing her back to Maureen. "Where's Roger?"

Mark and Roger had gotten into a fight that had been blown out of proportion—Roger had gotten completely drunk one night, and Mark had scolded him for doing so; he had a daughter now. He couldn't be getting hammered. Roger had said that he was allowed to—his fiancée was in the hospital. He could try to drink his problems away, right?—but Mark retorted with the safety of Leah.

"At the hospital," answered Maureen quietly, bouncing Leah on her knee. "She's getting worse."

The name 'Mimi' rarely came up in conversation now; it was always 'she.' It hurt too much to speak her name. When Leah was born, Mimi's health took a rapid nosedive. As the child's godfather, Mark knew it was up to him to always be near her, but Maureen always filled in when he wasn't able, as her god_mother_.

"Where's Collins?" Maureen asked, looking behind Mark in search of the taller man. "I saw him last night at the graveyard, but he said he was going home..." she scrunched up her nose. "You think we should call him?"

"You can," Mark felt guilty for making Maureen do this, but he felt the need to be at the hospital. "I'm going to see her." Once again he avoided using Mimi's name—it was a habit now, and even at the pronoun Maureen's eyes glistened a bit but then dried back over, another habit that each of Mark's friends had picked up—rapid tear drying.

"Okay," Maureen nodded, and reached for the phone. She placed Leah on the side of the couch near the arm, and the young girl automatically leant against it and started breathing evenly. Something was wrong with Collins, Mark knew. Maureen and Collins always had this connection, and by the way she was shaking, she knew something was wrong.

"Goodbye, darling," Mark kissed the young girl's forehead and ruffled the long, long hair the baby had been born with. She giggled but soon was asleep again.

When he was out of the building, Mark pulled out his change for the week and counted it. Six dollars. Six... would that be enough to get him to the hospital? He gritted his teeth and stuffed the coins back in his pocket. Fuck being poor. Fuck being a starving artist—he needed money, badly.

He hailed a cab with great difficulty—part of him wanted to run back into the loft, shave his leg and put on a heel—but when he finally got in, he told the Hispanic driver to take him to the hospital.

Minutes ticked by like hours. Why was he so anxious? All he knew was that he needed to be at the hospital, _now_.

He threw his six dollars at the driver, full knowing that it wasn't enough, and jumped out, running the last two blocks to the hospital Mimi was at. He made it to the receptionist, quickly gave her the info, scribbled his name, and then took off into the room he knew all too well. He skidded to a stop and flung the door open, practically tripping over the threshold.

"Roger," he breathed, a weak wave having to suffice for a greeting. "How's—" he paused at her name and studied Roger's face.

Pale. Roger was pale, and his eyes matched his burning red cheeks. He looked like he'd just seen someone die.

At this thought, Mark's eyes quickly flashed to Mimi.

Nurses were around her.

Tubes.

Machines.

Machines that weren't blipping in a steady rhythm.

Machines that weren't blipping at all.

"Mark," Roger's voice cracked, and his face twisted into agony, "Mark, she's—Mimi's dead," and he fell into Mark's arms. Everything was okay in Mark's arms, Roger had told Mark once. Because Mark knew how to detach, so everything was fine. Roger told Mark that they were best friends—and Mark could help Roger in ways that other people couldn't.

But now, who could help Roger? He had a daughter, a positive daughter, and now his fiancée had just died. He was living with AIDS. No money. No heat. _This _was when his family deteriorated, Mark discovered now, holding a shaking Roger in his arms. His family was slowly going to go. Starting with Mimi.

**A/N:** Sigh.

So, TLB and Cuffed are now finished, woot woot! I'm focusing on this for now, and then I'm going to need to start a humor fic or I might die.

Personal things. Um, I saw Wicked at the Opera House in Boston on Saturday... it was fantasmical. I loved it so much. Umm... this Sunday I'm auditioning for a show at Massasoit college and I'm singing "No Good Deed" for an audition song... woot woot! And ummm... today was a half day of school (:

The song relates to the chapter. I didn't put it in in words because I figured it'd be cliche, but Mimi's last words to Roger were. "Everything will be alright," and then they kissed.

Review.

–Steph.

PS: The chapters of this story are going to be shorter than Cuffed and MUCH shorter than TLB. Live with it.


	3. Stay Together for the Kids

_Their anger hurts my ears, been running strong for seven years  
__Rather than fix the problems, they never solve them, it makes no sense at all  
__I see them everyday, we get along, so why can't they?  
_"Stay Together for the Kids" Blink 182

_Smash! _A porcelain vase toppled to the floor as Maureen sashayed past the table it sat on, a smug grin on her face as the sound effect met her ears. Behind her, Joanne's face only grew redder. "Oh, okay, so now you're going to throw my shit _around?_" she asked, voice dripping with venom. "You can destroy me all you want, but you can't destroy my house!"

Grinning to herself again, Maureen picked a pillow and threw it at the wall opposite to her, watching as a picture frame hit the floor. "Oh yeah? Watch me." She knocked various expensive items to the floor by "accident" and Joanne's anger only rose higher. Who did Maureen think she was?

"The world doesn't revolve around you, Maureen!" Joanne screeched, and stalked over to her. "Not _every little thing _is about you! Did you know that? Or was that newly acquired knowledge?" Joanne rapped her knuckles on the side of Maureen's head. The head on the body of the person who was once hers, but not anymore.

"Well, I _did _know that—but, gee, everyone else doesn't seem to," Maureen stuck out her tongue like a six-year-old, just the age that fitted her attitude.

Joanne looked at Maureen, and just the look on her face warned the drama queen that something bad was about to happen. Something that would prove Mo wrong. "Yeah, _Mo? Honeybear? _Well, _darling_, I think I'm just about sick of being treated like the _ground you walk on!_" As she advanced on Maureen, her voice climbed.

"Which is kissed and worshiped," Maureen yawned.

And that was it.

All traces of anger, all traces of frustration, all traces of animosity left Joanne with that one statement. Her eyes went soft and she shook her head. "I'm done," she admitted, and then let out a laugh. "Phew, does that feel good. _I_ am _done_." She flashed a pearly white smile to Maureen; the smile looking even whiter in contrast with her beautiful skin. "Get your shit and go—I'm out of this relationship."

At the sound of these words, Maureen's world came crashing down on her. Had she just been dumped? Nobody dumped Maureen. Maureen could sure as hell dump whoever _she _wanted, but _nobody_, and she meant _nobody _dumped Maureen Lynette Johnson.

"You can't dump me!" Maureen stuck a badly French manicured hand out at Joanne, who was still looking indifferent. "You—you can't do this to me!" her face now twisted. "We have to stay together for Mimi—and—and for Roger, when Mimi's gone—and for Leah!" her heart twisted at the name. A name that he and Mark had picked out for their goddaughter. A nice Jewish name.

"We don't have to stay together for _anyone_," Joanne seethed, finally showing emotion again. "I _talked _to Mimi about it, and she said _herself _that she'd rather see us happy and apart than frustrated and together." Now tears were brimming the lawyer's eyes. "I'm sorry, Maureen, I can't play this game anymore."

"It's not a game, Pookie, I promise!" Maureen shouted, and walked forward to hug Joanne. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—"

"Go," Joanne shook her head. "JUST GO!"

This time it sunk in. Blinded by fury, Maureen hustled to the bedroom, stuffed all of her things in a duffel bag and then practically ran through the kitchen, ignoring Joanne's tear-stained face as it followed her. "Maureen—" Joanne began, using a tone of importance.

But Maureen didn't care. She blew right past Joanne and out the door.

When the door closed, Joanne sat on the couch and cried. Not only because of Maureen, but because of the phone call she had just received—Mimi was dead. She had died right in front of Roger. Baby Leah now had no mother.

Heart pace quickening, Joanne jumped up and sprang for the phone, preparing to call Maureen on her cell phone; but then Joanne remembered that Maureen had sold her phone ages ago, and even if it was still in Honey Bear's possession, she wouldn't pick it up.

Honey Bear. That was a habit Joanne was going to need to cut.

Without thinking about much else, Joanne instead dialed Collins' number, where she was sure Maureen was heading at this point. Three rings and the philosopher picked up. "Hello?"

"Collins," Joanne breathed, her voice flooding with sobs, "Collins, we have to head over to the loft, Mimi, she—she—" and then she was weeping again. "Just, we need to head over to the loft," she finished, wiping her eyes. "Soon."

"O-Okay," Collins exhaled, probably not understanding a word that Joanne had said but still being alarmed by her crying. "Um, I'll meet you over there?" His voice was gentle and comforting. Like that could help Joanne at this moment.

"Sure," Joanne breathed, and then ran out of the apartment, hailing a taxi.

**Maureen's green eyes **brimmed with tears as she people watched; one of her favorite things to do. One couple she watched particularly closely—an old man and woman, holding hands. The woman was in a wheel chair, and her husband helped her onto the bench and they sat, feeding pigeons. Her eyes were playing tricks on her—every time she took a quick glance, the man was Roger and the woman was Mimi.

Gritting her teeth, she forced herself to look away. That was the kind of relationship Mimi and Roger had. Of course, when things were _this _perfect, there was a glitch in the plan. And Mimi saw this as she watched the older man cough and take a pill... a pill that resembled an AZT.

How much longer did Mimi have? she asked herself, and she shivered at the thought of a reasonable answer.

Around the time that dusk fell, Maureen realized just how long she'd been sitting on the same bench at Tompkins Square Park. The pinkish sky almost made her cry.

Suddenly, someone was loping toward her, and then it was moving faster, faster, faster, until the form collided with Maureen and forced her into a hug, which was when Maureen started to sob. She didn't know who this person was, but if they were hugging her, she officially loved them, because this was what she needed. Someone to hug.

When she stopped crying, the way the person held her and just the smell of this person revealed them as Mark.

"Maureen," he exhaled, pushing his face into her shoulder. His scarf blinded her but she could care less. "We were so worried. We thought you were going to Collins', and then—and we thought you were going to go to the loft, but you never showed up, we thought you were gone, Collins was a mess—"

"Joanne," Maureen croaked out.

"I know," Mark said in a hushed voice, "it's okay, Maureen, you two just weren't meant for each other, that's all," he rubbed circles in her back.

In his mind, Mark didn't understand why Maureen and Joanne were the only two who didn't get along whatsoever. Sure, they were opposites—but Mark and Roger were opposites, and they'd been best friends all their life. They lived with each other and they were fine. Why were Maureen and Joanne the only two who didn't mesh?

With tears in her eyes, Maureen looked up at Mark, and a feeling she hadn't felt before leapt into her stomach. Something about the way his eyes sparkled and the way he held her. Something about the way their hands were entwined. Something about the way that he leant in and kissed Maureen.

Something about the way that Maureen Johnson had just fallen in love all over again.

**A/N: **Ooh... plot thickens! (:

This was written abnormally fast... XD (:

–Steph.


	4. How Am I Supposed to Live Without You?

_Tell me how am I supposed to live without you?  
__Now that I've been lovin' you so long,  
__how am I supposed to live without you?  
__How am I supposed to carry on  
__when all that I've been livin' for is gone?  
_"How Am I Supposed to Live Without You?" Michael Bolton

When Mark and Maureen walked into the loft with their hands locked, Roger felt remorseful for what Mark's face was going to look like later that night, or whenever his friends happened to leave.

Instead of addressing it right there, he shifted as inconspicuously as he could and tightened his grip on his daughter, who was sleeping soundly in his arms. He pretended he hadn't seen or heard their entrance—he hoped they would believe that he was sleeping.

"Maureen!" Collins, his voice still teary, shouted, and flung himself at Maureen. "Where the hell were you? You—I left a note on my door—"

"I didn't go to your house," she answered simply, but then eyed the sleeping Roger, his face flushed, trails where tears traveled quite obvious. "I went to Tompkins Square—why is Roger crying?" Her voice was suddenly serious, her vision locked on Roger and the baby, trying to put two and two together.

Collins glared daggers at Mark, whose face revealed that he was too chicken to break the news to Maureen. Even at the thought of what happened, Mark, who had barely shed a tear today, trying to be strong for everyone else, sat down on the couch, and, for the first time that Joanne had ever seen, broke into vicious sobs.

This silenced the room.

"Somebody better tell me what happened," Maureen said in a warning voice, and the consequence wasn't in need of mentioning.

"M-Maureen," Collins exhaled in a shaky voice, "M... Mimi died earlier." His voice was quiet and gentle.

Roger, who'd been anticipating this moment, tried his hardest to keep up his "sleeping," but at the sound of Mimi's name, he let loose a strangled cry. Knowing what was going to happen, Joanne leapt up, grabbed Leah, and then retreated back to her corner. Roger flew to his feet and stood in the middle of the loft, face distressed.

"_My girlfriend dies, and you two come back from a nice little date, hands together?_" he roared, his bloodshot eyes wide open at Mark's crying form and Maureen's, which had fallen to the floor. "_You can't even show a bit of god damn compassion?_" He started crying again, his heart feeling like it was about to explode. "_Do you know how this feels?_" he wailed. "_DO YOU?_" his voice cracked.

Each of them eyeballed each other. No. No, they don't. None of them could ever understand Roger's feelings completely. Exiled from the house at fifteen, getting addicted to drugs, losing his girlfriend, going through withdrawal, getting AIDS, having an HIV positive daughter, and then losing his fiancée? No, none of them had experienced that.

However, having more checked off on his list than any of the others, Collins bravely took a step forward and reached out a comforting hand, whispering, "I do."

An agony twisted face quickly transformed to a weak one, and just like that, Roger wrapped his arms around Collins and leaned his head on the big man's shoulder, letting it all out. "Collins," he sobbed, clutching Tom's shirt, "Collins—I don't—I can't—I just can't—"

"You can," Collins whispered reassuringly, "You can and you will."

Somewhere, deep, deep, _deep_ down inside, Roger wanted to beat the shit out of Thomas B. Collins, but his real feelings were that he _would _get through it. Maybe not for a decade, maybe not for fifteen years, but he would eventually get over the loss of Mimi.

That was when Leah cried out, reaching her small arms out to her father.

Roger's heart melted. "Leah," he whispered, walking over to his daughter and clutching her in his arms. "I'm sorry, Leah, baby," he put his head into her hair and inhaled. Her mother. She smelled so much like her mother. When he pulled back, he looked into her eyes. Her mother. All he saw in those eyes were her mother.

The little girl giggled and tugged at her father's hair, oblivious to the emotionally drained people around her. Roger laughed, choking back on his tears, and snuggled with his daughter. How long would she live? They'd done everything they could; exactly two months after she was born, they'd gotten her ART treatment after all pitching in. They gave her the sulfamethoxazole and trimethoprim combination, or TMP-SMX, she was supposed to have religiously.

But were they doing enough?

Roger looked down at his daughter. He knew that she wasn't going to live to see his age. He knew that he and Mimi had poisoned a life. In fact, they both agreed _not _to have kids. And when Leah came along, they couldn't bear to kill her before she had a chance, and so they took every precaution possible. Mimi took all the drugs, did everything right... but their daughter was still cursed.

And Roger could only blame himself for it. Why hadn't he used a condom? Why hadn't he been smarter? Why hadn't he thought? It was his responsibility.

"Roger?" Mark asked quietly, coming up beside his friend. "Are you okay?"

Confused, Roger tried to reply, "Of course," but his voice stuck in his throat and he realized he was crying, face wet, and instead of words a cry escaped him.

Then his head was pressed against Mark's shoulder, and Leah was in Maureen's arms, still reaching for her father.

"I'm sorry, Mee—dammit, I did it _again!_" he shook his head. Meems. That's what he always called his daughter. But somehow, the pain in his chest lifted when he called his daughter Meems. It reminded him of Mimi, made him believe that a part of her was still alive on this planet.

"C'mere, Meems," he christened his daughter, and held her close.

**A/N: **This update took a little longer... and it sucked a little more... sorry, I'm having some really serious family problems. Not just the my parents hate me/I hate my parents... some serious issues.

Make me feel better and review?

–Steph.

PS: Finding info on how to deal with HIV positive babies is extremely difficult... if anyone has info, could you PLEASE PM me or send me an email (available on my homepage)? Thankums!

Superfantastical thankums to **Captain Amminergeon** (damn her and her impossible to spell penname!) for helping me before I even posted this.


	5. Elaborate Lives

_We all live in extravagant times,  
__playing games we all can't win.  
__Unintended emotional crimes,  
__take some out, take others in.  
_"Elaborate Lives" Radames

"What do we do now?" Collins asked, clearing his throat after Roger had gone to his room with Leah. Maureen had gone to put the baby back into her crib, but Roger was holding on for dear life, making it impossible to pry her from his arms.

Cards. They were playing cards. Collins, Maureen, Mark, and Joanne. When there was nothing else to do, when they were down in the dumps, they played cards. Right now the game was 65, one that Collins usually exceeded in.

"I have no fucking clue," Mark exhaled honestly. He rearranged his cards and looked over at Maureen, next to him, and Joanne, next to Collins, silently asking them the same question.

"Well," Maureen blew out air, making her bangs go wild. "I..." she squeezed her eyes shut. "We need to plan the funeral—"

"It's already done," Collins intervened. "Her mother... said she'd take care of it."

This confused Mark. What he'd heard about Mimi's mother was everything but friendly. "I thought Dulcinea kicked her out when she was fifteen," Mark noted, knocking twice to show that he was about to go out in the card game. An exasperated sigh was heard from the group, and Joanne threw down her cards and simply announced that she lost.

"True," Collins monotoned, clearly trying to keep emotion out of his voice. "But I think she still wanted her oldest daughter to have a proper burial, you know? She couldn't have hated Mimi—"

Everybody in the room choked. That was her name. Collins had said her name. That suddenly made everything snap into perspective for Mark; that made everything real. Mimi had died. Mimi Marquez was dead. Now he had to accept it... but he didn't want to.

When Mark stood up, his chair flew backward and hit the ground. "I'm sorry," Collins apologized, his eyes full with worry for Mark.

But Mark was already halfway out the door, winding his scarf around his neck and hoisting his camera bag around his shoulder. He took the stairs two at a time, almost tripping quite a few times, but finally making it out the loft door and onto the busy street that Avenue B is. His footsteps were drowned out by the cars and passerby around him.

Without knowing it, Mark sped up, and then finally broke into a run, letting his feet take him where they desired. He subconsciously felt himself take his camera from its bag, and he wound it up. When he realized that he hadn't even felt himself wind the camera up, he knew that he was now on autopilot, and that his mind had taken control of his body. He couldn't detach any longer.

Then his feet stopped moving and he collapsed into a chair.

When he saw where he was, he started crying.

Life Support.

The walls were full of newspaper articles and Halloween decorations, though Paul had clearly made a fine attempt to take them down. The chairs were still in a circle from the day's meeting, and the windows had flapped open from the wind outside. All in all, the building was cold and abandoned. And dark.

"This is Life Support," Mark narrated into his camera, voice still teary, "When nobody's here. All of the originals are now dead, except for Collins and Roger, who still visits sometimes. Mimi's gone. She held on for so, so long... for her daughter, for her love, for her friends... she held on _so _tightly... "

He choked again, and then sent himself into a coughing fit, his eyes trailing to the floor. Something caught his eye—something that shone in the barely-there moonlight. He picked it up and turned it over in his hands; it was... a ring? With a note?

On the front of the note was one name in curly writing: _Roger_. There was a heart inside the _o_, the one thing that made it quite obvious that it was Mimi's handwriting. Mark's breath hitched in his throat. Just feeling the ring reminded him of Mimi's presence, of her smile, of her laugh, of her motto...

Slowly, Mark placed the ring into his camera bag and dropped to the floor, searching for anything else of Mimi's, anything else left behind. Anything at all.

After a complete hour of searching the floor of the Life Support building, Mark concluded that, no, there was nothing else worthwhile on the floor.

He stood up, covered in dust, and wrapped his scarf back around his neck, preparing to make a hasty exit into the now snowy night. Camera still in hand, he opened the door and was promptly attacked by snowflakes.

When he stepped out the door, he realized just how far he'd gone to get here. Had it really been that long? Had he been lost in himself _that long?_ "Guess so," he answered himself, and started walking through the sleet in the direction of the loft.

By the time he made it to Avenue B, sleet had frozen to his white eyelashes, his teeth were chattering, and his entire face felt iced over. He made a promise to himself to never stray too far from the house without either checking the weather or bringing a complete snowsuit along for the walk.

Though the inside of the apartment building wasn't much warmer, Mark quickly felt relief when he was out of the wind and sleet. He took the steps slowly, as easily as he could, trying to remain upright until he made it to the loft. _Three more steps left... two... one! _He made it to the top of the staircase and tripped into the large doorway of the loft, falling against the door and resting. _If I could just sleep right here..._

Of course somebody had to open the door—Maureen, by the smell of the perfume. His body fell against hers, and he struggled to stand.

"Collins!" Maureen shouted, trying to keep herself and Mark upright. "Collins, help me!" she shrieked, and suddenly her body wasn't supporting him anymore, and the two of them were falling—

"Woah, woah, woah!" Collins gently moved the diva out of the way and placed his own body in between Mark and Maureen's, holding the shivering Mark. "Mark—what the hell were you doing out there? Shit, buddy—Mo!" he turned around and looked at Maureen, who was nursing her arm. "Mo, get some blankets—where's Joanne?"

"I think she went to check on Roger and Leah—I'll tell her to get out here if I see her," Maureen promised, and she quickly scuttled out of the room. Collins gently eased Mark onto the couch, keeping him in a sitting position.

"Don't you dare fall asleep," Collins warmed, going to put the hot plate on.

Mark's eyelids drooped.

Collins came hustling back into the room and slapped him. "What did I just tell you? Stay the fuck awake."

Maureen came tripping into the room, her arms full of blankets. She dumped them on top of Mark and noticed the whistling kettle on the hot plate. She made Mark a quick cup of tea and put the mug between his hands. "Mark," she asked, serious. "Where did you go?"

When Mark opened his eyes, the dim light of the loft nearly blinded him. He looked around. There was the door he had just entered through. There was their abandoned card game. In the next space over, down the hall, Roger was sleeping with Mark's goddaughter. But where was Mimi? His eyes glassed over with tears, melting his eyelashes. Oh, yeah. Mimi was dead.

"I—" his voice was a croak. "I went to Life Support," he managed.

"Why did you go to Life Support?" Maureen asked him. Mark hated her tone. She sounded like she was talking to a four-year-old who was being interviewed by the cops.

"I don't know," he snapped, confusing his friends. "I... just, my feet took me there. Look, I need to talk to Roger."

As if on cue, Joanne came bustling into the living room part of the loft, her eyes wide with horror. "Roger's not here."

**A/N: **The plot thickens even more!

This took a little longer, so sorry! Chapters should be updated faster from now on, though.

–Steph.


	6. Me Against the World

_I'm a nightmare, a disaster, that's what they always said  
__I'm a lost cause, not a hero, but I'll make it on my own;  
__I've gotta prove them wrong; me against the world.  
_"Me Against the World" Simple Plan

"What do you mean, 'Roger's not here?'" Collins questioned carefully, stretching to his full height. He took three steps total and then was at Joanne's side, studying her body. "Didn't you just go in to check on him a second ago?"

"I went into the room, and he wasn't there," she breathed, clutching her heart. "I checked the whole loft—I didn't know this damn place was so huge—and then I went up to the roof and I checked all up there, but there's nothing. I took the fire escape and went into Mimi's old place, and he wasn't down there, and I asked all of your neighbors—he's not here," her eyes welled with tears. "I don't know where he went."

There was a momentary shocked silence. "Where could he have gone?" Maureen asked, standing up next to Collins. "The baby," she suddenly declared. "Where's Leah?"

"Gone," Joanne reported.

A loud sigh of relief was emitted from Collins, who had previously, been rifling through cabinets. "Well, he took her medicine." He hunched over the counter, sounding relieved but furious. "Which means he planned it out, which means he could be _anywhere_." He growled angrily, gazing out the large windows and into the snowy, stormy night. "What the fuck is wrong with him? Leah shouldn't be out there, she's only six months—"

Now Mark stood, still wrapped up in a blanket and shivering. "She's safe," he said confidently, the image of Roger with Leah focused in his mind. "She's everything to him. He would _never _let Lee get hurt."

"Her name's _Leah_," Maureen corrected for the umpteenth time.

"I call her Lee," Mark countered.

"Okay, let's stop arguing," Collins butted in, "We need to find him. Joanne, you check his drawers, make sure everything's in there. Maureen, you and I will see if—"

"Collins," Mark intervened, his blue eyes wide, "I think we're overreacting. Maybe he just went somewhere for the night; maybe he went to Chris's house." Something Roger commonly did when he wasn't feeling too good—he'd confide in his younger brother for advice or help. "Maybe he's just spending a night alone with his daughter. I think we're going a little overboard here. Let's just let it sit through the night, and if he's not home tomorrow, we'll track him down."

There was another silence, one in which Collins fell onto the couch in a sprawled out position. "All right, fine. But if he's not back by tomorrow—"

"—we search his ass," Maureen completed.

Mark nodded and hoped that he wasn't making a mistake... for Roger's sake, and for Leah's sake as well.

"Okay, then," Collins straightened up on the couch and then stood. "Reen, Jo—you guys are staying the night," he announced. "I'm sleeping on the couch, one of you can take my room, and one of you can take Roger's."

"Wait—what do you mean, 'My room?'"

"Oh, I didn't tell you?" he asked nonchalantly, digging pillows out of a closet. Dust came out in a poof and he made a face, but he shook them out some more and said that they would make due. "I'm moving back in." His voice made it sound like he hadn't exactly asked Mark and Roger yet, but could care less—he already helped them pay the rent.

"Okay," Mark grinned, mind wrapping around this idea. He walked over to Collins and wrapped his arms around the professor's shoulders. "Good to have you home, man."

When he pulled away, he looked up at Collins' face, a sad smile on it. "The apartment's getting to claustrophobic... and this does feel more like... _home_, you know?"

Still smiling, Mark nodded.

"I'll take Collins' room," both Maureen and Joanne announced at the same time. Then, looking away—"Then I'll take Roger's."

Silence. In the distance, a clock ticked each second passing.

"Look—" they both began again, and Joanne stopped, but Maureen continued. "Um; I'll take Roger's room, you take Collins', okay?"

Joanne nodded.

That night as Mark lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling, he thought. He thought about Roger's absence. Thought about what he was doing right now. Was he really at Chris's? Was Leah safe? Was he taking a plane somewhere right now? Had he traded in the fender for a car again, like he had last time?

There was a soft knock on his door, and Mark reached for his glasses. When he placed them on, he called, "Come in."

Maureen stumbled in, wearing a pair of Roger's pajama pants and Mark's old Scarsdale High sweatshirt. Without speaking, she crossed the room and took a seat next to Mark on the bed, leaning against the headboard, swallowing lumps in her throat while she thought.

Finally, she looked over at Mark, and quietly asked, "Can I stay with you?"

Mark smiled warmly. "But of course. What's wrong?"

Biting her bottom lip, Maureen sank down from the headboard and into Mark's waiting arms. "I'm worried about Roger," she admitted, beginning to cry.

Following his gut, Mark didn't wait a moment before responding. "Yeah, me too."

**A/N:** Slightly longer wait, but I'm kinda still tryna figure out where this is going... I've got the next chapter down, though!

–Steph.


	7. The Sharpest Lives

_Well, it rains and it pours when you're out on your own  
__If I crash on the couch, can I sleep in my clothes  
_'_Cause I spent the night dancing, I'm drunk I suppose  
__If it looks like I'm laughing, I'm really just asking to leave.  
_"The Sharpest Lives" My Chemical Romance

Even through the snow, Roger could see the faint outline of his brother's house. Though his daughter was bundled in every blanket he could carry, he still held her closer, his heart set on keeping her warm and healthy. "I'm sorry, Leah," he apologized again, placing a kiss on her nose. She was sleeping, and as Roger looked down at her, he couldn't say there was a more beautiful person on the planet.

The snow he was trudging through was beginning to seep through his boots, and now his fingers were getting numb—the only gloves he was able to find had been ones without the fingertips on them. He dug his hands into Leah's blankets and continued to walk, determination burning harder than anything else.

He reached his brother's front door and pulled it open, not bothering to knock. "Christian?" he called, coughing violently before managing to speak again. "Chris, it's Roger."

Upon reaching the living room, he peeled off his coat and collapsed onto the couch, unwrapping Leah and placing her next to a pillow. He unlaced his boots and studied the room—was Chris now taking decorating from him? Because the place looked like a shit sty.

"Roger?" Christian came stumbling in with a towel wrapped around his waist. A wet six pack gleamed in the dim light of the family room. _Since when has Chris been this fit?_ he asked himself, wondering just what had become of his younger brother. "Hey, Roger—let me just get some clothes on, all right? And then let me kill you for being out in the snow."

"Okay," Roger agreed, smiling slightly. After placing a kiss on Leah's trusses of hair, he stood up and began to make hot chocolate, something that always warmed him up, no matter what.

Within moments, Christian came out, wearing plaid pajama pants and a muscle shirt. "Roger!" he exclaimed, and pulled his older brother into a hug. "It's been a while—yeah, why were you out there in the freezing cold stormy night?"

"Coming here, _duh_," Roger replied.

Christian didn't look pleased. His own hair, a much dirtier blonde that than Roger's, had been cut short, something that hadn't been so in a while. "You know what I mean. You could've been _killed _out there! And—and, Leah!" he motioned to the sleeping girl. "What were you _thinking?_"

"Mimi died," Roger blurted.

"That's no ex—_what?_" Chris's voice went up several octaves but down several decibels.

"Mimi died." Roger exhaled. "I just... needed to get out of there. But, jeez, Chris, what _happened _to you? What happened to the long, blonde and wild look you had going on? Your hair is... it's normal shade. Something I haven't seen for... oh, jeez, maybe your entire career as an adolescent and adult."

Chuckling slightly, Chris shrugged. "I clean up good."

"Where's Sophie?" Roger asked, looking around the beautiful house for his brother's girlfriend of many years.

"Um... Sophie and I... broke up," Chris admitted.

Roger's jaw dropped. "_What? _You—you and _Sophie? _Sophie McGinnons—_that _Sophie?" Roger'd been almost sisters with Sophie in middle school, meeting through a peer counseling program, and he knew that she would get along with Christian, being in the same age group. Since then she and his brother been best friends, and had even started dating a few years ago. It was clear to Roger and t they were perfect for each other.

"Yeah," Christian closed his eyes and exhaled deeply. "About a month ago."

"Why?" Roger cut in almost immediately after Chris finished his sentence. "You—you and her—you guys... you...!" Roger was so infuriated that he couldn't even string a sentence together. "Well—I—..._wow_. Okay." Roger drew a hand to his forehead. "I won't elaborate on my anger. I really like Sophie, she's a great girl."

Next to him, Christian seemed to be getting frustrated. "Why don't _you _date her?"

The look on Roger's face portrayed such sadness and devestation that Chris was no longer angry, but guilty. "I'm sorry," he instantly said, "I wasn't thinking. God. Umm... how about this; let's go get drunk!"

A knifelike something stabbed Roger's heart when he thought about he and Mark's fight. Though he did want to get completely and utterly wasted, he knew that Leah still needed him. "I can't. Leah's here. You know that." _Or you should_...

"I'll call up Sophie," Chris suggested.

Roger threw his hands up. "Did you not just say you broke up?"

Chris shrugged. "We're still friends."

Roger put his hands on his hips.

"...moderately. Whatever. She'd love to see you again, I bet." He walked over to the phone and punched in her number. After he was sure it was ringing, he shoved it at Roger. There were a few brief seconds of silent argument and flamboyant hand gestures, but then Roger took the phone.

"Hello?" came a sweet voice through the phone.

"Um, hey—Sophie."

There was a short pause. "Yeah... who's this?"

"Roger."

"_Davis?_ Oh, Roger! How have you been?"

"Not so hot," he admitted. "Listen, Sophie. This sounds really bad, and I really don't want to be a burden, but... I _really _need to get drunk. I'm at Chris', and I have a daughter now, and my fiancée just died... God, I can't believe I'm using you like this—you know what? Forget it. Never mind."

He bit his lip in a futile attempt to not sob, and had she not spoken, he probably would've, but her soft voice came through. "No," she said softly, "No, Roger, it's fine. I'd love to come over. I haven't seen Chris for a while, and I'm dying to see you. I'll be over in a few seconds." She said a quick goodbye and they hung up.

**A/N:** Jesu, I'm sorry this took so long. Busy life, suckish school, etc etc. Don't worry, neither Sophie nor Chris will be Mary Sues, and, no, Sophie will not get together with Roger.

REVIEW?!

–Steph.


	8. Across the Universe

_Sounds of laughter, shades of life are ringing through my open ears, e__xiting and inviting me.  
__Limitless undying love which shines around me l__ike a million suns.  
__It calls me on and on across the universe.  
__Nothing's gonna change my world.  
_"Across the Universe" The Beatles

The nearly blinding lights of the club combined with the thunderous bass of the live band gave Roger a throbbing migraine beyond compare. The club itself was called _Smash_; probably standing for the feeling his head was going to have when he reentered the smoggy air of New York City.

The two of them walked side by side, Roger standing out like a sore thumb. Roger was wearing a pair of ripped jeans with his chain. His shirt was a plain black tee. Christian, however, was more up-to-date with how to dress when at a club—he was wearing clean black jeans and a button-down white shirt.

They walked through small groups of girls, some quite younger than Roger and clearly underage, and others from the same age group. Christian pointed handguns at them and was clearly aware of his handsomeness, and Roger suddenly realized that he lacked the confidence he once possessed with girls his own age.

It only took minutes before Christian floated away from him, joining a group of drunken friends. It took Roger a moment to calculate if Christian was old enough to drink, but after counting on his fingers, he remembered that he was three years older than him, making his younger brother exactly twenty-one.

After that was taken care of, he sat at a vacated seat and put his head down. The swirling smoke above him smelled of nothing legal, and the screaming sound of the bass had finally halted. "Yo, this is Chuck, tonight's emcee, telling you it's open mic night for those who matter. We've got a fine array of accompaniment instruments... so just get your asses up here."

For a few minutes, Roger thought nothing of it. He concentrated on getting his headache out of the red alert area. Then, Chuck's words sunk into his brain and he shot up, sending two women who'd been leaning over the table falling backwards. "I guess he's alive, Karen," one muttered, and they smiled sweetly before stumbling away.

Taking everything double time, he nearly ran up the steps to the stage, ventured behind through the door and launched himself at Chuck. "Can I—could—do you think I could perform? You said it was open mic, and I'm pretty good—I used to play with the Well Hungarians."

Chuck grinned. "No way!" He clapped Roger on the shoulder and looked into his eyes. "Wait a second. I've seen those eyes before... _Roger Davis?_"

Instantly, Roger's jaw dropped. He knew who this was. "_Chad?_"

"Hey," Chad put a finger to his lips. "It's not safe to be called that anymore..." he chuckled nervously. "If you get my drift. But, yo, Roger—where've you been?"

"Getting clean," Roger grinned. "And... having a life. _Starting _a life. But my fiancée just died—" Visibly, he choked.

Chad was quiet. "Sorry to hear that, man."

Roger nodded. "So I wanted to sing her her favorite song, if that's all right."

"Go for it, man. And I think—you'll never believe it—" he fumbled with a few guitar cases before he found one that Roger recognized. "I have April's old Washburn Eagle," he smiled, and opened the old case.

The moment the case opened, hot tears stung Roger's eyes. April's old guitar, from when _she _was a part of the Well Hungarians. He brought a shaky hand to the neck of the guitar and held it, warmth rising through his fingers and up his arm. "Why do you still have this?" Roger asked, voice quieter than he anticipated.

"Nobody claimed it," Chad whispered back. "We always keep them... it's like we have a part of history with us, you know? If we ever told anyone we had the lead singer/back up guitarist's guitar here, we'd be a famous landmark. You guys were big here—huge. You had so much going for you..."

"I know, I know," Roger shook his head. "And then she killed herself." He snapped his fingers. "Damn. So much we could've done. Look—I'm gonna go sing, okay?" Guitar in hand, he pushed past Chad onto the stage, the lights immediately blinding him.

His headache was back.

The roaring crowd toned down a bit, but people were still talking. He picked the microphone up off its stand and cleared his throat a bit, unsure of what to say.

Suddenly it was silent.

"Um, hey." He lamely said. "Some of you might remember me as Roger Davis from the Well Hungarians... others might know me as a friend, or a brother, even," he winked at Christian, "and others might not know me. Either way... my life's been hitting the rocks, you know? We all get like that... this song was my fiancée's favorite, before she died."

He situated himself comfortably—lowered the microphone stand and put the mic right on it. He didn't plug in April's guitar, rather kept it quiet, as it was supposed to be.

He strummed the opening chords, the raw and acoustic sound almost out of place in the nightclub. The strobe lights had stopped and now it was just dark, a spotlight on Roger in his lone stool on the middle of the stage.

"Words are flowing out like endless rain into a paper cup, they slither while they pass, they slip away, across the universe. Pools of sorrow, waves of joy are drifting through my open mind, possessing and caressing me." he sang, his hands shaking as he strummed the chords without a pick.

"Jai guru deva om," the crowd sang with him. He smiled. Everybody knew the Beatles. "Nothing's gonna change my world, nothing's gonna change my world. Nothing's gonna change my world, nothing's gonna change my world."

He finished the song just as calmly as he'd started it, and cradled the guitar in his hands for a moment. There was silence; the world seemed to halt as he stared at his brother's tear-stained face. Surprised, Roger drew a hand to his own eyes, only to find that he'd been crying.

Suddenly overwhelmed with emotion, Roger stumbled off the stool, dropped the microphone on the hardwood stage, and ran through the door, depositing the guitar on the top of its case.

He hurried out the back door of the club, hoping not to run into—

"Roger," breathed his brother from next to him.

"Christian, shit!" Roger exclaimed, covering his heart with a hand.

"Roger. That was amazing. That was so full of emotion, and—your voice was just so... I didn't know you were that passionate about music."

"I'm not that passionate about music," Roger spat back in disgust. "I was passionate about Mimi."

"And that too," Christian added, nearly running to keep up with Roger's fast pace. "Roger, listen, I'm really sorry—"

"You should be."

"You can't shut everyone out like this!" Christian had stopped hustling and was now standing several yards behind. "You can't do this again, Roger! You did it when Mom died, you did it when April died, you did it when Ollie died, but I'm not going to let you do it again! You can't do this to us again!"

But Roger wasn't listening; he was already halfway up the next street, head down, crying.

**A/N:** Poor Roggy!

I loved the movie _Across the Universe _and thought that Roger could definitely pull this song off with his guitar skills.

Oh—and is anyone actually reading this? Because I went from like six or seven reviewers to two. Hmmm?

REVIEW, BITCHES!

–Steph.


	9. Sunday Morning

_Sunday morning, rain is falling  
__Steal some covers, share some skin  
__Clouds are shrouding us in moments unforgettable  
__You twist to fit the mold that I am in.  
__But things just get so crazy, living life gets hard to do  
__And I would gladly hit the road get up and go if I knew.  
_"Sunday Morning" Maroon Five

Drowsily, Mark let his eyes flutter open, untangling his left arm instinctively as he did so. It was stuck underneath Maureen at an odd, uncomfortable angle. Over the top of her head he could see the frostbitten windows and snowflakes lightly dancing about the air.

He smiled and exhaled, then becoming aware that he could see his own breath, and that he was shivering in only his boxers and a long-sleeved nightshirt.

Rolling out of bed, he tripped into a pair of sweat pants and rubbed his hands together, then deciding to go into the kitchen and prepare something edible for breakfast. By the sound of the silent building, he knew that he was the first one awake, and that it was probably only around six in the morning. He also knew that he would've been the second one awake if Roger was in the house.

Aside from that small fact, something about the loft air revealed that Roger wasn't there. However, Mark was at peace with himself over this. He knew that Roger wouldn't be stupid with Leah around. And if Roger _was_ being stupid, Leah was in safe hands. Roger cared about the girl too much to cause her any serious harm whatsoever.

He hummed a song to himself as he poured the coffee grain into the pot, turning the hot plate on as he did so. Vaguely, he could remember a night he and Roger had gotten drunk...

A pang of fear hit his heart, but then was gone.

He shook his head. When would he be able to stop worrying about Roger?

Behind him, Collins entered, nearly sliding halfway across the kitchen on his socks. "Mornin'," he waved with a single hand and sat down on at the counter, across from where Mark was preparing the coffee. "Roger's not here, huh?"

"Nah."

"Should we worry?"

"Nah. He's a big boy. If I took off, you guys wouldn't be this concerned."

"Yeah," Collins nodded slowly, "but you aren't as fucked up as Roger is."

Mark sighed and pulled out two mugs, filling each to the brim with steaming coffee. "Fine, you win. But _seriously_—he's got a daughter. Can't you see how much he loves Leah?"

There was a second of quiet, but then Collins replied. "You're right," he smiled, taking one of the cups from Mark's hand. "It's just kind of second nature to worry about Roger, you know? There's so much shit that he's gone through that none of us could _ever _possibly imagine, you know? It's scary to think of that; and now with Leah, who he thinks he has to raise by _himself_..." he let out a deep breath. "Where do you think he went?"

"To his brother's house," Mark replied quite simply, sipping his coffee.

At this, Collins looked taken aback. "Why so all-knowing?"

Mark shrugged. "I've known Roger too long to _not _know what he's doing. And I guarantee he could do the same for me."

"**Mark? He knows **where I am."

Roger looked down into the black coffee before him, stirring it with his spoon uselessly. He sat across from Sophie, who'd spent the entire night with Leah. When Roger had gotten back to the house the night before, he went right through the kitchen, passing directly by Sophie, and directly into the spare bedroom, slamming and locking the door behind him.

He discovered that Sophie was just as early a riser as he was when he stumbled into the kitchen for his morning coffee, and there she was, shoving a cup full of sugarless, creamless coffee into his hands.

"I remember that you always liked it black," she'd said, smiling. "Only person I ever met who liked it that way."

Now, in the dim light of the kitchen, the sky still dark behind the curtains, they sat, conversing about whatever came to their minds. The baby monitor that Roger had stuffed into the blankets sat on the table between them, and Leah's soft breathing echoed through the kitchen.

"How do you know _that?_" she questioned, furrowing her eyebrows together.

"I know him too well. In fact, he's probably sitting at the table, drinking coffee, telling everyone to calm down right now. Well, not Maureen and Joanne," he chuckled. "They sleep until, like, one."

"Maureen _Johnson?_" Sophie almost dropped her cup. "You're still _friends _with her? Is she still dating Mark?" She questioned abruptly, her eyes digging holes through Roger. "And is Joanne—Collins is _straight _now?!"

Roger choked on his coffee, laughing out loud. "No, no. Maureen's bi, she's with Joanne. Mark's a loner, and Collins is still gay. In fact, he lost his boyfriend a couple years ago... still hasn't gotten over it, the poor guy."

"What was his name?" Sophie asked quietly.

For a moment, Roger looked thoughtful, staring up at the twinkling chandelier above the small table. "Angel," he answered after a few seconds of silence.

There was more silence, this time a bit awkward, so Roger cleared his throat. "So what about you? How've you been?"

"Not so good," she replied, sheepish. Her auburn hair fell in her face and then almost into her coffee. "After Chris kicked me out, I stayed with my parents for a little while—"

"Wait, wait." Roger held up his hand. "After Chris _kicked you out?_"

"No," she quickly corrected. "I exaggerate. Sorry. After _I _decided to move out, I stayed with my folks for a bit, and then I bought a small apartment in the area. I'm working as a hair stylist, which is what I went to college for. I'm making good money, I guess. I just miss having someone like Chris around, you know?"

Roger nodded. Everywhere he _went _he saw Mimi's face.

"You know what I was thinking?" Sophie asked, shifting in her chair. "Umm... you know who I used to have the biggest crush on?"

"Maureen?" Roger blurted, not full knowing _why _that person's name had come out of his mouth. Maybe because every time he asked that question, that was what he got for an answer.

"Um... no," she raised her eyebrows. Her cheeks flushed. "Mark."

Roger had to bite his lip to not laugh. "Want to come back with me... whenever I decide to?"

She looked ready to respond, but they both noticed something wrong. In the frosty morning air, the sound of Leah's breathing had stopped.

**A/N:** Oh no!

Remember... NO ROGEROCness.

This took longer, sorry! I'm working on another story called _I Get By_; pre-RENT.

Review?

-Steph.


	10. Untitled

_I can't stand the pain, I can't make it go away. I can't stand the pain.  
__How could this happen to me? I've made my mistakes, got nowhere to run,  
__The night goes on as I'm fading away; I'm sick of this life, I just want to scream...  
__How could this happen to me?  
_"Untitled" Simple Plan

In the heated kitchen of Christian's house, Roger was no longer a twenty-four-year-old man. No—now, he was nineteen years old, sitting in an uncomfortable lawn chair. For some reason, his sister always loved the fall, loved the leaves, loved the smell of the air, and so, her funeral was held outside. His father paid no heed to the temperature of the air; the funeral was held in the cold.

The suit he'd been forced to wear was one of his father's old ones, torn and ripped and too small. The shoes were scuffed and two sizes too big, his father's as well. The spots on his forearms where the suit's coat didn't reach were freezing, making his whole body shiver.

From behind him, his mother encompassed him in a hug. "Roger," she breathed. "Oh, Roger, I didn't think you were going to show up," she buried her face into his hair, which was now grown out long. "I thought you still hated me, baby."

That was the last time he saw his mother before she died.

Sophie's hand in his, pulling him up the stairs, was the thing that snapped him out of his nightmare. Right now, all he could think of was the last time he held Leah in his arms, the last time he said goodbye to her, hoping that she knew he loved her... even though she was a six-month-old baby.

Somehow he'd managed to pass Sophie on the stairs and he flew into the room where Leah was sleeping in Ollie's old, old crib, and cradled her into his arms. Cold. Her body was cold.

He spun around and came face-to-face with a window that had been left wide open.

"Why did you leave the fucking window wide open?" Roger's voice seemed to have left him in a whoosh, because it came out as a mere squeak. He looked horrified, like this woman had been sent to kill his daughter.

"It wasn't me!" Sophie shook her head and held up her hands. She swivelled around and closed the window. "I made sure she was all tucked up and warm, and all the windows were closed!"

"Hey, guys, what's wrong?" Christian came in through the bedroom door, behind them.

"Did you open the fucking window?"

"Yeah," he nodded. "It was piping in here, I figured she'd get too hot."

"You fucking idiot!" Roger pushed by his brother, panic rising in his heart. "She has _AIDS! _The warm is _good _for her, she's a _baby!_"

The room seemed to stop moving, and both Christian and Sophie sat gaping at him. "She has AIDS?" the two of them asked at the same time, and then Sophie pointed an accusing finger at Roger.

"_You _have AIDS?" Her eyes looked glassy and her finger shook.

"This isn't important right now," Roger said, his voice firm. He tucked the blanket around his daughter's body and struggled down the stairs, almost tripping a few times, but his brother, behind him, kept him steady.

Roger threw open the front door and jumped into his brother's car.

**The pelting rain** on the roof of the taxi gave Mark the idea of simply giving up on life. He was convinced that whatever God he had been taught to believe in hated him to the utmost extent of loathing. If he was feeling _this _worried, of _course _the Lord was going to bestow shitty weather upon him and the taxi he rode in.

"I told you he was at Christian's," Mark muttered, knitting his fingers together.

He and Collins had gotten a call from Chris, saying that they were rushing Leah to a hospital, and that they should hurry. Mark had alerted Maureen and Joanne, who were going in another taxi from Joanne's loft, where Maureen had been retrieving more things she'd forgotten.

Out of the corner of his eye, Mark watched Collins' hand push down Mark's knee, which had been bouncing nervously. "Mark," Collins warned, his face red from the dim light of the taxi, "relax. Relax, everything's okay."

Mark noted the worried tone in Collins' voice, but didn't say a word about it.

Suddenly, Collins was coughing, viciously, unhealthily, and Mark, alarmed, began to pat him on the back. "Christ, Collins, are you okay?" Mark asked, now nervous not only about his goddaughter but about his best friend.

"I'm fine," Collins waved an arm. "Fine. It's nothing. I've been getting a cough, don't worry, I've gotten in checked out. I'm alright."

The taxi jerked to a sudden stop, and Mark looked out the window. He hated taking taxis in New York, but knew that the two of them couldn't walk in these conditions. As his mind wandered, he thought about how _Roger _had made it here with a little baby girl wrapped up in blankets.

Truthfully, Mark didn't know what to think. He'd been right about Roger being at Christian's, but he had no idea what was going on now. The little girl who had simply become the light of his life was now being rushed to a hospital. What had happened? Had Roger become irresponsible?

"No," he said out loud, not realizing that he was doing so. "That's not possible."

"What's not possible?" Collins questioned, knitting his eyebrows together.

"I was just thinking..." he shook his head. "I was thinking..." he stopped again. "What do you think's wrong with Leah?"

His voice was supposed to be strong, but he sounded strangled; like he was about to cry.

"I don't know, Mark," Collins sighed. "I really don't, man. I don't know." The bigger man was fidgeting, lacing and unlacing his hands nervously. "Mark, can I tell you something? It's really serious. And... I don't want anyone else to know, but I trust you to help me, okay? I don't want to freak Roger out."

Just like that, Mark was terrified. Inside, he was screaming. Mark was bursting, because he knew what this meant. He knew _exactly _what this meant. There was a _reason _Roger was the only one he didn't want to freak out. Mark's throat was constricting, his hands were gripping the seat. He was dizzy.

"Mark, my t-cell count shit the bed," Collins informed him quietly. "I'm dying, Mark."

The taxi stopped in front of the hospital, Mark shoved the money into the driver's hand, and stepped out into the rain, not turning to look back.

**AN:** Long wait, sorry!

Review? I'm still not getting many!

–Steph


	11. Dear Prudence

_Dear Prudence, open up your eyes, dear Prudence, see the sunny skies  
__The wind is low, the birds'll sing, that you are part of everything  
__Dear Prudence, won't you open up your eyes?  
__Look around.  
_"Dear Prudence" The Beatles

"Leah Maria Davis," Mark sounded out each syllable for the hundredth time to the secretary at the main desk to the emergency room. "Little girl, about this tall," he bent his knees completely and used the floor as part of the scale, "came in with her father, her uncle, and her uncle's girlfriend."

"I'm _sorry_, Mr. Cohen," she replied for the hundredth time, "you are clearly not family, and she is a minor."

"No _shit_," Mark retorted angrily. "He's my brother! I... took my wife's last name!" Without warning, he stuck his hand behind his back and dragged Maureen next to him. "My wife, Maureen Cohen!"

"Yeah, he took my last name... he likes to think of himself as the girl."

The secretary didn't look the least bit pleased, or humored, for that matter. She furrowed her eyebrows, cast her eyes down once, and then looked back up. "I'm sorry, Mr. Cohen. The waiting room is right there, I suggest you go sit down and get comfortable while you wait for the patient's information you are requesting."

Sighing angrily, Mark turned around and walked away.

Maureen mooned the woman.

"Indecent exposure!" the secretary shouted, and then picked up the phone and started dialing crazily.

"Proof?" Maureen shot back, raking the room with her eyes for witnesses before discovering that nobody else had seen the act. "Good," she mumbled, and followed Mark suit into the adjoining room.

"Christian!" Mark cried in surprise, and then launched himself into the seat next to Chris'. The younger man's face was blotched with red; he'd clearly been crying. A hand was pressed to his forehead and he was taking deep breaths. "Chris, man, what happened? Are you okay? I have no idea what's going on right now—"

"It was my fault," Christian forced out, not removing the hand from his forehead.

"What _happened?_" Mark demanded again.

"I'm not sure—I just know that I had been asleep, and then I heard Roger shouting in the room she was sleeping in, and I went in there, and I left the window open, so she was cold—" he stopped talking abruptly. "Roger never told me he had AIDS," he whispered.

In that single seven word sentence, Mark could sense the endless amounts of grief and loneliness. It was quite clear that Christian was pained by this news. "I don't think he ever remembered to tell me," he gasped, trying to hold back his sobs.

"Roger forgets a lot of stuff," Mark comforted him. "Did you ever say anything that might've made him think he told you?"

Christian shook his head, and then pulled the arm away from his forehead, revealing a face with eyes full of fresh tears. "I remember... when... when he got here, I told him I was gonna k-kill him for being out in the c-cold... but nobody should be out in the cold with a little girl... maybe... maybe he th-thought he did..."

Then his body was shaking, and his knees were drawn up to his chest. Instantly, Sophie put her arm around his shoulder and gave him a one-armed hug, and then _she _was crying, unable to hug him anymore, needing to hug herself.

For some reason, seeing Sophie cry pained Mark in his chest, and he pulled her into a standing position and wrapped her arms around him. He was aware that Maureen was behind him, but she'd cheated on him so many times, that it didn't matter. What also alarmed Mark was that nothing else mattered when Sophie was in his arms.

"Roger!" Maureen shrieked from behind him, and instantly Mark had let go of Sophie and spun around, blindly running toward the form of his best friend.

Everything was aside—the argument they'd had, the fear, the anxiety—Mark was happy to see Roger alive. When he pulled back from the huge hug he'd given his taller friend, he saw the expression on Roger's face—idiotic glee and overreaction.

"Let me guess," Mark began, "you... exaggerated. She's fine... maybe a cold?"

Just like that, Roger was laughing, clapping Mark on the back. "You know me too well, Cohen."

"You know me just as well," Mark snickered. "So, anyway—she's fine? Perfect? Scott-free? Not ill at all?"

"Well, she's got a severe case of sniffles," Roger grinned. "And just the common cold. She's fine, Mark," Roger sounded like he was saying this more to himself than his friend. "She's... she's going to be okay."

Then, his eyes caught Christian.

"Chris," he breathed. "Jesus, man, I'm really sorry. I... I should've told you. I really should've." He walked over to his brother and gave him a giant bear hug. "I just... I didn't want to worry you, really. You're my baby brother, I'm not supposed to be causing you pain. I love you too much to do that, doofus."

The younger Davis didn't seem entertained by this. "Since when?"

Roger's eyes dimmed. "A couple of years, now," he decided.

"Why did you—"

"Mister Davis?" a doctor in green scrubs called from the doorway. "Your daughter," he motioned to a nurse who was carrying Leah, wrapped up in a pink floral blanket. "You'll have to sign her out," he held out a clipboard.

The baby was left in Mark's hands, and as he held his sleeping goddaughter close to his chest, everything was okay in the world. She smelled like baby powder, and as he inhaled her sweet scent, her long sandy hair tickled his nose. She was perfect, he was convinced.

Soon, they were finished and were on their way out. Mark handed the baby back to Roger.

The world seemed brighter with this little girl in it, Mark discovered. He wrapped his arm around Sophie's shoulders and gave a squeeze, and she looked over, blushing.

As Roger sashayed out of the double doors to the hospital, his daughter in his arms, the woman at the desk called out to him. "Excuse me," she said, and then gestured to Maureen. "Do you know this woman?"

"Why, yes I do," Roger spun around and replied, smiling. "That would be my brother Mark's wife," he jabbed his thumb at Mark, and then waved to the secretary, turning back around.

As they shuffled out the doors, Mark leant in. "How did you—"

"I know you too well," Roger smirked back.

**A/N:** XD Yay, Leah survives!

I put links as to what Christian and Sophie look like in my profile. Of course, they don't like quite as modelesque as those pictures do—though Christian has a huge house, he's quite poor, but he is attractive. Sophie is pretty, but not modelesque as the hair model woman.

Oh, and did anyone else hear that RENT's coming out on a Blu-Ray disc? Meaning more room for special features? XD Hooray!

Review!

–Steph.


	12. Tomorrow Belongs to Me

_The sun on the meadow is summery warm.  
__A stag in the forest runs free, but gather together  
__to greet the storm; tomorrow belongs to me.  
_"Tomorrow Belongs to Me" Boy Soprano

In the taxi, which had been crammed with Sophie, Christian, Collins, Mark, Maureen, Joanne, and Roger, Maureen opted to move into the passenger seat with the baby. Once she was up front and the privacy window was up, everybody burst into uproarious shouts at Roger, who sat and absorbed it all.

Mark, who looked positively fervid with anger, was shouting various swear words in a falsetto tone, something he always seemed to do when he was particularly angry at Roger. The rocker's face appeared impassive; he was staring a hole into the window he was jammed up against, seeming to count the snowflakes as they drifted gently onto the pane of glass.

"Roger!" Mark shouted, and grabbed the other man's shoulder roughly, leaning over Sophie and Collins to do so. "Roger, are you even _listening _to us?!"

Everybody's voices stopped as they stared at Roger, who had turned away from his window and was now keeping a steady gaze locked on Mark.

Then, just like that, Roger leaned into Collins' shoulder and let out the most painful sob that Mark had ever heard the man emit in his entire life, which was saying something—Mark knew Roger through his Scarsdale days, through his April days, through his withdrawal days, and now through his Mimi days.

"R-Roger," Mark tried to speak, but his voice caught and he cast his eyes out the window closest to him, instead coming in direct eye contact with Christian, who had the window seat on the right side of the taxi. His face was blotchy and red, and his eyes looked clearly pained. More than anything else, Mark noticed, Christian looked naive and much too young to be in this situation.

Joanne, who was directly to his right, was hunched over in the seat, her head in her hands.

_I fucked up again_, Mark thought to himself, and shook his head.

"Collins," Roger moaned into the wiser man's sleeve, "I... I don't know what to do anymore, Collins. T-Tom—"

"Oh, shit, he called him Tom," Joanne murmured. "That means it's _bad_."

As if Mark hadn't already noticed this.

"—what am I supposed to do? I've got... I've got Leah, and I care so much about her... and I have to raise her all by myself... this little girl, I probably won't see her hit her tenth birthday—"

Next to Mark, Sophie craned her head upward and rested it against the padding. Instantly, Mark's hand found hers and squeezed it, getting a positive response from her. Mark's heart fluttered, and he suddenly wished that Maureen hadn't recently captured his heart.

When Roger was spent, he leant his head up against the cool window and kept his eyes on the city zooming by him. "I'm sorry, guys," he apologized brokenly, and swallowed a lump in his throat.

Mark knew better than to respond to this, as did everyone in the vehicle.

His thoughts got the best of him on this short journey—he began to ponder about Leah's future, and if Roger _would _live to see her in her teenage years. Another possibility was that Leah wouldn't live to see her father turn thirty; in the cruel city of New York, anything was possible.

As soon as Roger passed, Mark knew that he was the future of Leah. He was going to be her legal guardian—unless Roger changed plans and left her with Christian. He knew that even though everything was coming up roses now, eventually the winter would come and the roses would wilt and die, along with everything around them.

What a spot-on metaphor for his life, he discovered.

The taxi came to a slow but sure stop, and then Maureen was opening the door, which Christian almost fell out of. She quickly bent down to support him and then apologized, handing Leah to him before helping everyone out.

It wasn't a mistake, Mark knew, that Maureen's hand grazed Joanne's ass as she reached back to grab his hand.

The glint in her eye was unmistakable, and suddenly, Mark felt like the wound Maureen had inflicted years ago had suddenly been reopened, though it had just recently sealed itself.

Mark refused to make eye contact with her as he walked up the stairs to the loft, taking each step carefully. Behind him, he heard Collins cough ferociously, and instinctively turned around, but the anarchist was already playing it off like nothing had happened.

At that moment, Mark was aware that his family was honestly beginning to die. At that moment, Mark had a panic attack in his heart.

He took the last steps quickly, hurried right past the loft, instead opting for the next set of stairs that climbed up to the roof. He burst through the door and then locked it, nearly inhaling a large snowflake as he did so. When he pivoted around, he discovered that the whole roof was blanketed in a thin sheet of snow, and he whipped out his camera and filmed it.

"November 3rd, two PM, eastern standard time. Once again, I feel alone, once again, I feel like everyone's leaving... but now it's finally hit me full-force that my family's getting toward its climactic days. Collins... Collins just told me that he's dying—his T cell count is going down... Mimi just died two days ago... and little Leah gave us a scare the other day."

With his bare hand, he wiped the snow off of a chair and sat down, still filming the snowy air around him. "I... me and Maureen got back together. Unofficially. She and Jo... I guess things didn't go too great, and I'm starting to put two and two together and realize I was probably just a rebound."

He sighed and watched as his breath dissipated into the frosty winter afternoon. _That _made sense. Maureen _didn't _love him, she was just afraid.

"Problem is; I'm falling back in love with Sophia. I saw her, and it was... it was like every feeling I used to have for her all over again. She's not acting like she's with Christian anymore, and I wish I knew her better." He traced an abstract design in the snow covering the table next to him before realizing he'd written MC and SG with a big heart around it.

"What am I, six?" he snarled, and then wiped it away. "So Collins is coughing a lot lately, and Roger himself said today that he wouldn't live to see Leah hit ten... and I was just thinking... will _Leah_ live to see _Roger _hit _thirty?_"

Suddenly, there was scuffling to his left, and Mark snapped his head to the left when he saw... Roger's hand?

He hustled over next to the side of the roof, and when he looked down, there was Roger—...scaling the side of the building?

"Marky Jane!" he stuck his tongue out, "Remember our old Spider-Roger and Marky Jane days? Yeah... well... you forgot about the loose bricks we installed when we first moved here, for emergency transports to the roof when I was suicidal and when you were too drunk to keep your balance up here."

_Holy shit_, Mark thought to himself. He was trying to vent to his camera... think about his worries... and Roger was climbing up the side of a building in freezing cold with only his torn ripped jacket and those same damned plaid pants that he must've changed into the moment he got home.

With a bit of Mark's help, though he insisted that he was _not _getting too old to climb the side of the building, Roger was sitting next to Mark in another chair, ranting about how Leah had instantly fallen asleep. "Something's troubling you," he cut off his story and started with that. "I can tell... you're going cross-eyed."

Alarmed, Mark looked at Roger.

"Just kidding," Roger smiled, and then crossed his own eyes. "Seriously, Markykins. Tell me what's up, I don't like seeing you like this."

Mark sighed. "I don't want you to die, Roger," he admitted, and then bit his lip to keep from crying.

This looked like the last thing Roger expected to hear, for his eyes went wide and he leant back a bit before leaning back in. "Yeah, I don't want me to die, either," he chuckled, but then stopped. "Listen, Mark, I—"

"We'll have the 'what-to-do-when-Roger-dies' talk some other time," Mark waved his arm, "but soon. For now—I just don't want you to die."

"Well... I promise I won't accidentally hold the Windex the wrong way and spray myself in the mouth, and I'll try to get the bleach to go into the washing machine instead of my mouth when I go to the dry cleaner's, and I swear to God I won't swallow any knives."

Mark couldn't help it—he laughed.

"Man, I'll be okay, alright? And we'll have the 'what-to-do-when-Roger-dies' talk soon, because I know you want to have that talk. DON'T WORRY ABOUT A THING, 'CAUSE EVERY LITTLE THING IS GONNA BE ALL RIGHT!" he shout-sang, and at _that _moment, Mark knew that _he _would be okay when his family decided to leave.

**A/N: **Don't expect quick updates the entire month of December—I've got quite a life. December 7th is my concert for singing lessons, and then the 8th, 9th, 16th, 17th, and 18th are all shows for Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat. On the 11th I've got an informational meeting for the school play, Guys and Dolls, and on the 1st I've got an audition for Jr. District. On top of that, thousands of pages of homework, the holiday season... and chorus concerts as well.

So... December's a big month for me, don't hate me!

Also; I'm aware of what this song symbolizes in the play Cabaret; do not take offense at all—it has different symbolism in this story. It simply means that although everything seems happy now, they must "gather together to greet the storm" when Roger and/or Leah get sick... it has nothing to do with the play Cabaret.

Alllllll righty! Review?

–Steph.


	13. I Know the Truth

_How have I come to this? How did I slip and fall?  
__How did I throw half a lifetime away without any thought at all?  
__This should have been my time, it's over, it never began  
__I closed my eyes to so much for so long and I no longer can  
_"I Know the Truth" Amneris

Roger opted to take the stairs back down to the loft, saying that his "leg was hurting him" because he "slipped on one of the bricks." Deep down inside, Mark was aware that Roger was scared shitless of going down the brick stairs they'd created, as he'd always been. However, Mark said he was going to hang out some more... but he really wanted to come down by the bricks.

He tightened his camera bag over his shoulder and lowered himself over the side of the building, putting his sneakered foot on the brick. _Just like the old days, _he calmed himself, ignoring the fact that his hands were sweating in the freezing temperatures and he was choking on snowflakes.

He lowered himself onto the next brick and stood there, smiling. Worriless, he picked up his right foot and went to move it down, not checking and therefore not seeing that the particular brick he was easing himself on was covered in a thin sheen of ice.

The moment he felt himself falling was an easy one for him, actually. It hadn't registered in his mind that he was falling to his death until maybe he was halfway there, and even then he could hear Collins beneath him, which was calming on its own. He vaguely registered his camera falling from his shoulder, but he didn't care at that second.

"Shit, Mark!" Collins swore, and there was shuffling, and then Mark was on his back, facing the snowy sky.

The balcony. He'd completely forgotten about their balcony, the one thing that had just saved his life. As snowflakes fell onto his pale face, he tried to force air into his lungs, tried to will himself to breath again, but all oxygen had left him in one powerful _whoosh_.

"Fuck, Mark! Oh, my God!" Collins threw his cigarette into the snow and knelt down. "Shit, man, are you okay?" His eyes were wide open, Mark noticed, and he looked terrified.

Collin's cold hand felt Mark's equally frosty face, and then his lips were to Mark's, pushing air in. Who would've thought that Collins would try CPR at a time like this?

When he backed off, he shouted, "Fuck, guys, get out here!" in a teary voice. The warm droplets of water were falling onto Mark's face, and then he was breathing again, although with each lungful of oxygen came a stabbing pain in his ribs and back.

Suddenly, everyone was out on the balcony, and Roger was right up next to him. "Fuck, Mark, why did you take the bricks _down? _Fuck, Mark!" he was kneeling now, too, and together he and Collins pulled Mark into a sitting position.

Mark's back felt like it was snapping in half, but he couldn't find his voice. Instead, he made odd faces and grunting noises, and they laid him back down. "Fine, going _up_," Collins instructed Roger and Christian, and the three men picked Mark's light form up and carried him into the loft.

Maureen, who'd been given instruction to boil water, came hustling over, soaking a pillow in the piping water and then wrapping a thick blanket around it. She placed the pillow down just in time for the boys to place Mark on top of it.

"Okay, man," Roger sat next to Mark's laid down form on the couch, "you gotta tell me what hurts."

Mark opened his mouth, but once again he couldn't find his voice. He was still struggling to suck in air, he was still confused, he was still wondering where his camera had gotten to.

His back felt frostbitten—he felt like he'd been lying in that snow for hours and hours on end. The boiling pillow was hardly thawing it out, though it did work like a heating pad.

Sophie came clambering in, and there was a collective gasp around the room, following everybody's eyes on Mark.

Somewhere, Mark was aware that his camera was broken, smashed beneath him on the wet balcony, but he refused to believe it. Denial had washed over him like a vicious thunderstorm, and it wasn't going to clear up until the camera was in his hands and shattered in a thousand pieces.

"C'mon, Mark, talk," Sophie begged, hiding what was in her hands behind her back. Maureen snatched it and brought it from the room, and Mark thought he caught a glimpse of black on silver—

No. He wouldn't believe it.

"Mark, you've got to," Sophie spoke again, taking Roger's vacated seat and caressing his face with her warm hand. "Please. We have to know what's wrong... do you want an ambulance?"

Mark vigorously shook his head, and when he did so, he turned too far to the left.

There, in front of the doorway she'd just emerged from, Maureen was kissing Joanne. Making out with Joanne. Tonguing Joanne.

With all of the vocal energy he possessed, Mark croaked, "Bitch."

Sophie's hand retracted from his face and her body pivoted to see what he was looking at, and she gasped. "Oh, dear," she whispered to herself, and looked away.

Maureen and Joanne leapt apart, Joanne looking sorry and Maureen looking a bit confused. "Mark—I'm... I..." she stuttered, but it was too late. Mark's head was already pushed against a cushion, his face serene, fast asleep.

**A/N:** Shorter. Sorry. This was supposed to be updated Friday night, but I was grounded JUST as I went to update.

Just got back from "Joseph" rehearsals... oh, my God, our Joseph is so damn hot and he has an amazing voice... but of course he's not as hot and amazing as A. Pascaaaaaaal. :)

–Steph.


	14. Hold On

_Your days: you say they're way too long, and your nights you can't sleep at all  
__And you're not sure what you're looking for, but you don't want to no more  
__And you're not sure what you're waiting for, but you don't want to no more  
__But we all bleed the same way as you do, and we all have the same things to go through_.  
"Hold On" Good Charlotte

Like that, Roger's world froze.

In one corner: Joanne and Maureen, lovers and fighters. Roger figured that Maureen had come onto Joanne, because he knew for a fact that Joanne respected Mark and would never kiss Maureen while he was dating her. Maureen, who was never faithful to anyone—it was just a given—had just crushed Mark for the second time, and Roger was going to have to do something about that.

In another section of the room was Christian and Sophie, talking like old friends. A pair of people who were simply better off buddies. There stood two of Roger's closest friends; his own brother, and his old grade school peer counseling partner.

Behind him was Collins sitting next to Mark on the couch. Mark, his best friend on the face of the planet, had just fallen quite a fair distance and landed flat on his back. They hadn't called the paramedics in fear of unnecessary pay—something Mark and Roger had decided upon moving into the loft. Collins, another great friend, always caring, always helping...

He thought of himself. Who was he out of all of these people? The bringer-downer? The emo kid who always gave everyone a reality check?

It then struck him that he was just sitting there, doing absolutely nothing, and the world hadn't, in fact, frozen. Getting Collins' attention, the two men moved Mark into his bedroom, reheating the pillow and placing that beneath him again. When the returned to the room, Roger made a beeline toward Maureen and grabbed her roughly by the shoulders.

"What the _fuck_ is wrong with you?" he asked, shaking her shoulders.

She laughed and made a face, motioning to his arms on her shoulders. "What the fuck is wrong with _me?_"

Just like that, Roger took his hands away from her shoulders, and he scoffed. "Who the fuck _are _you anymore, Maureen? Are you just oblivious to other's people's feelings? Do you know what you just fucking _did _to Mark? No, no, no—do you know what you did to him _last _time? Do you know how much you fucking tore him apart? How many nights I had to feed him? How many nights I had to beg him not to fucking kill himself?"

Maureen's eyes softened a bit. "I can't help how I feel."

"But you can help how you make other people feel!" he shouted back.

There was a period of silence, a period in which Maureen sat down on the couch. Nobody was quite aware of what she was doing until she emitted a loud sob.

Not one person moved. _Drama queen_, Roger spat in his mind, and continued to tap his foot impatiently.

"I'm sorry!" she cried, covering her face with her hands. Her body was shaking, her shoulders heaving. "It's just... I... I forgot! I didn't... the night..." she was shaking her head, trying to force words out that wouldn't come.

"Mo?" Collins asked, sitting next to her and placing a hand on her knee. He looked like he understood what she was saying. "Mo, you gotta talk."

She gulped for air for a few more minutes, and then began to talk. "I..." she shuddered. "The night Roger went missing," she started. "M-Mark went to bed with me. I left the house, and I'm almost positive he didn't notice. I... I got drunk," she admitted tearily. "I was worried as hell. It's no excuse but... yeah." She exhaled and cast a quick look to Roger. "So... I woke up in this guy's bed. I went to his bathroom and found... AZT."

Roger's breath caught in his throat, and suddenly there was a droning buzz in his ears.

"I... have no idea if we used protection or not, I don't know if anything happened. Hell, I don't even remember where he lived, I just left his apartment and _ran_. I got back to the loft and... Mark wanted sex."

That was about where Roger tuned out and felt his world collapse around him. Fuck. If Mark and Maureen had AIDS, he didn't know what he'd do. And now, with Mark's camera gone, everything seemed to be breaking.

When he opened his eyes back up to the world around him, Collins was pressing Maureen into his shoulder, calming her shaking body. "It's okay, it's okay," he soothed her, but with his eyes he was saying so many different things. "Did... did you go down to the free clinic yet? Did you do anything? Try to figure out where he lived?"

Instead of verbally responding, she choked back on more tears and shook her head. "H-He has my phone number, if he's any humane man he'll c-call me and t-tell me what h-happened..." her voice fell into sobs again and she collapsed against Collins' body once more.

At that point, Roger was done with being near her, so he turned on his heel and stalked into his bedroom. Slamming the door behind him, he fell face first into his comforter, inhaling the mixed scent of April and Mimi that still lingered between the stitches.

As far as he was concerned, it was Maureen's own damn fault. Of course he felt compassion for her—right now he was vividly reliving his first few days of being an official HIV positive individual—but if she hadn't gone and screwed some guy after getting drunk, she wouldn't be in this position. And how was she going to break it to Mark?

Without noticing it, Roger dozed off into a dreamless sleep, the one state that seemed easier to deal with than any others at this point.

**A/N:** Alrighty. Lately I've been getting flamed about my inability to produce something creative, so right here I'm gonna say that THIS IS ORIGINAL, eat it, bitches.

:) Haha, okay, review.

-Steph.


	15. Close Every Door

_Just give me a number instead of my name, forget all about me and let me decay.  
__I do not matter, I'm only one person, destroy me completely then throw me away.  
__If my life were important I would ask, "Will I live or die?"  
__But I know the answers lie far from this world.  
_"Close Every Door" Joseph

When Roger woke up, he discovered that it was no longer three in the afternoon; it was eleven at night, and he'd slept face down on his mattress like a freaking rock the whole time. When he stood up, he passed by a mirror and discovered that the designs stitched on his comforter now decorated his face in a deep red imprint.

The moment he stepped foot outside the door and into the foyer, the smell of pasta wafted into his nose, and he was suddenly aware of his intense hunger pangs.

His legs led him to the kitchen, and he instantly attacked the leftover pasta that was in a bowl covered with plastic wrap. "_Roger, eat some when you wake up. –Collins_," was scribbled messily in black Sharpie on the plastic wrap, and Roger smiled a bit and rubbed his palms together.

The sauce was in another pot on one of the back boilers of the stove, because Mark was probably the only person Roger knew who hated pasta with sauce, so Roger heated up his meal the unconventional but only way possible in the loft. He filled a pot with water, turned the front burner on, and poured the plain pasta into it, fetching a plastic spoon from one of the cabinets.

As he prodded the rotini, he thought in silence. The moon was his only dim light aside from the ghost light Maureen had given Mark for his birthday one year, and he squinted to search the room.

The stove began to lightly whistle, as it always did as it heated up. Suddenly, somebody was moving on the couch, groaning, and Roger picked the spoon out of the noodles and wielded it as a weapon, afraid of who would be sleeping on his couch at this time of night.

Mark, squinting without his glasses, peered over the side of the couch. "Roger?" he questioned, feeling on a side table for his glasses. "Jesus, man, it's about time you woke up."

"What do you mean?" Roger questioned, placing the spoon back in his pasta coolly. "Didn't I fall asleep at about three?"

"Yeah, _yesterday_," Mark corrected. "You've been sleeping for a day plus."

It took Roger a moment to digest this thought, and then he turned back to his noodles. "_Really?_"

Mark laughed and mocked his tone, "_Really_."

"How've you been? How's your back?"

"Better. Now it just kind of feels like someone dropped a bowling ball on my back and then sat on it, but it's an improvement from what it felt like before."

Roger cringed at the thought of someone dropping a bowling ball on his own back. "Do I want to know the simile for before?" he asked, dumping the noodles onto a plate after draining the water. He carefully turned the burner that the sauce sat upon, watching as the spaghetti sauce began to bubble.

"Not really," Mark admitted, and grinned widely.

There was a comfortable silence in which Mark adjusted his position on the couch and Roger mixed his sauce with his now heated rotini. He dumped it onto a chipped plate and sat with the food steaming up at him, clutching the sides of the table. He knew he needed to talk to Mark about something, but he was afraid of the outcome.

Now the silence warped into awkward; maybe not for Mark, but for Roger. He tapped his fork nervously against the side of the table, bouncing up and down anxiously. He ran a hand through his hair briefly, and in a rush of excitement, Mark whirled around on the chair.

"Would you just put the fucking fork down and tell me what's wrong?"

Just as Mark spoke this, Roger, alarmed, let go of the fork, sending it flying across the room and into the sink, where it silenced.

Following that was an even more awkward silence, and so Roger sighed and went to grab another fork from the drawer. He sat down in a huff and stabbed a piece of rotini, and then half-shouted, "I'm dying, Mark."

He was aware that this probably wasn't something Mark was expecting nor wishing to hear, but Roger knew they had to address this sometime soon, before he really _was _gone, and so, he glared viciously at his pasta and waited for Mark to respond.

"Yeah," Mark whispered softly, sounding deep in thought. For some reason, his mind was on Collins; if Roger was already dying, what was Collins?

_Dead_, he thought grimly, and pressed his mouth into a thin line.

"And... before I get too stubborn to fully believe and comprehend it, and before I'm too much of a bitch to tell you, I want to let you know... how things are going to happen after I die," Roger picked his words carefully and continued to cast his eyes downward.

"Okay," Mark gulped.

There was another thoughtful silence, and then Roger broke it with a light sigh. "Well, the first thing I want you to do is kick the shit out of Benny."

This certainly wasn't the thing Mark had expected to hear, so he was startled into laughter. He would've thought something cliche and movie-esque was coming, but then again, was this not Roger Davis he was having the conversation with?

His laughter died out and so did Roger's before the latter emitted another sigh. "You laugh, but I'm serious. But besides that... I guess I just want you to keep on living, Mark," Roger shrugged and eyed Mark seriously, his green eyes portraying sincerity. "I know you. I remember when your hamster died in third grade it took you years to not cringe whenever somebody said 'spot.'"

Mark let out a feeble laugh, but the thought of his late rodent of his childhood years nearly brought tears to his eyes.

"And now you're getting upset," Roger sighed angrily. "C'mon, Mark, a hamster is not a person. You still cry about Angel. Hell, you still cry about _April_. They were great people, but you have to understand that they're up watching us, _happier_. It's not like we'll never see 'em again, or at least that's what I believe," he winked. "I don't want you to mope, Mark. I'll let you for a while, but then if it gets to the point where it's really bad, I'm going to have to intervene and possibly scare the living shit out of you."

There was a pause where he stuffed some more rotini in his mouth and allowed Mark to digest what he'd just said. "Roger," Mark whispered, "I... I don't know how you can just say this. You don't understand what it's like, and you never can. You don't have to watch _me _die."

"Are you sure about that?" Roger questioned, and then pointed his fork at Mark. "When Maureen broke up with you, you were as good as gone. I literally thought you were going to die, Mark. Seeing you so destroyed destroyed me, too."

"But I lived! After you die, you're not going to live!"

"But I'll still watch you, man!" Roger shouted back, not remembering that half the household was asleep. "If you want I'll fucking possess your scarf and whisper haikus in your ear or some shit!"

"But you won't be _there!_" Mark's voice broke on the last word, and he stuffed his face into the couch and cried.

For a second, Roger didn't move, but then he leapt up and ran next to Mark on the couch, enveloping him in a hug. He tried to pick out the words that would help Mark with this, but he couldn't find any. How many times had he been in this position lately? Holding a troubled Mark in his arms, unable to say anything that could help his best friend.

"I'm not dying yet," Roger soothed, shaking himself, "please, please don't worry about this yet, Mark, _please_. Not until I'm on my death bed will I allow you to worry. Please."

"I'm okay," Mark announced, pulling away from Roger and wiping his face off. "Christ, I've been crying a lot lately."

Roger smiled. "Me too," he admitted, and then hugged Mark once more. "So are you going to be okay?"

"For now."

"Well, as far as I'm concerned, I'm not that significant to the world, so just let me die," Roger joked.

Mark chuckled with him, but deep inside, he understood that Roger meant everything to him.

That certainly wasn't helping.

**A/N:** Sorry this took so long! Jeez. Been so busy. Joseph has been going GREAT. Oh, by the way, the end of this chapter is NOT MR ROMANCE! AGHAGHAG! I cannot stress that enough! They're BFF!

Next update might not be until the New Year... sorry! Review?

-Steph.


	16. I Put the Metro in Metronome

_I'm gonna make sure that I put this place on the map,  
__if there's one promise I make, it's that.  
__If there's one promise I make, it's that.  
__And some have told me that this could be the best for me,  
__and some have said, "Yeah, I've heard it, but I'm not buyin' in."  
_"I Put the 'Metro' in Metronome" Cute is What We Aim For

Christian's eyes snapped open, the radiant December sun shining into them. By the feeling of his heart pounding in his chest and the thin sheet of sweat covering his body, he was aware that he'd had another nightmare of Roger's impending death. He shook his hair, which had grown to about an inch past his ears in only the month and a half he'd spent at the loft, out of his face, and then collapsed back into his blankets.

When he'd gone to go to bed that night, he discovered that every single surface possible for sleeping in or on had been occupied, therefore being forced to create a bed for himself on the floor. The moment he entered the linen closet and pulled out the blankets, however, he felt the need to simply break down and cry, and so he entered a deserted section of the loft he stumbled upon by accident.

After he lay the blankets down and got as warm as he could, which really wasn't all that warm, and did just that; sobbed into his pillow that was nothing but a dusty, folded up curtain. His tears stained the ochre fabric, and eventually, he'd cried himself to sleep.

Now he stood up and stumbled forward, nearly diving face-first into a pile of dusty boxes. When he regained his balance, he stared at the box below him, labeled, "Chris and Roger," with Roger's R backwards. A smile paused on his lips and then was gone.

When he fully registered the scene before him, he was startled into laughter. There, against the wall, stacked to the ceiling, were boxes upon boxes, either labeled with Roger's, his mother's, his sister's, or his own name. Everything of a lost one went directly to Roger, not his father. Nobody trusted his father, not anymore.

His own boxes were here, and he visibly cringed. His father must've thought he was dead.

There was a year or two after his mother's death when Christian ran away from home, a year or two he knew caused Roger pain still today. He remembered the day he knocked on the loft's door, and his brother answered, furious, then in tears, and then in tears again.

Shaking his head to rid himself of the daydream, Christian bent his knees and tore open the box, revealing multiple coloring books, toy guitars, and a small keyboard that Christian had played in his younger years. Smiling, he pulled the keyboard out, complete with thirty-six keys out of the custom eighty-eight, and hit the power button.

The moment he did this, however, the dim light from the keyboard shone to the corner of the room, where an old grand piano stood.

Grinning widely, he rocketed into a standing position and more or less bounded over to the grand, sitting down and stroking its ivory keys. That instant, his heart raced, and his long, slender fingers collided with the keys and were hopping about animatedly, playing "Prelude to the Afternoon of a Fawn."

It was a piece he hadn't played in _years_, simply because he lacked a piano in his big house. And even though it had been such a long time, and he'd been through so much... he could still remember every sharp, every pedal, every _ff _and _mp_.

"Those Davis kids," he chuckled to himself. "Something about music and those Davis kids..."

Very distinctly he could hear his sister, Ollie, playing the violin, the best violin player he'd ever heard. This thought also saddened him as he remembered her young face, so full and exuberant with life.

Somebody was tripping in the back of the room, and Christian turned around quickly, his fingers pushing down on nonharmonic keys.

"Christian?" Roger's voice asked, and he coughed on dust.

"Roger," Christian exhaled. "Jeez. Scared the crap out of me."

"Were you just playing... Chopin?"

"Yes."

"...you're a dork."

Christian laughed and lightly rested his head on the top of the piano. "It's better than you can play."

Roger sauntered over to the piano. "Well, yeah, I know that, but you're still a do—" he paused, and then moved into the light that the keyboard was still radiating. "Why are you crying? What happened?"

"Huh?" Christian brought a hand to his left eye and felt below it, and sure enough, he felt tears. "Oh, I don't know. I had a rough night... sleeping on the floor and all..." he chuckled.

Roger sighed. "Well, you managed to find my stash of boxes from over the years."

"Mine are here," Christian said in a undertone.

"True statement."

Christian watched as Roger walked over to the boxes and grabbed one to the right side of the room. "Remember this?" he pulled out what looked like a photo album and flipped a few pages, and then walked back over and shoved it into Christian's face.

In the picture was Roger, Olivia, and himself, all eating cake. However, Roger had put bunny ears over Christian, and Christian was shoving a piece of cake on top of Roger's head. Olivia, who looked as angelic as ever with her blonde curls, was smiling as wide as she could.

Needless to say, the instant Christian saw this picture, he burst out laughing. "This was her birthday, right?"

Roger flipped the picture over. "Yeah, 'Ollie's fifth birthday.'"

"Oh, man. Good times," Christian laughed, and clapped Roger over the shoulder.

"Yeah. Well, man, get up... another day to face."

In the month and a half that he'd been at the loft, Christian never missed hearing Roger saying that. Nor did he miss Maureen saying, "Get the hell out of my house!" but as far as he was concerned, this was the place for him. He loved living like and with Mark and Roger.

So, standing up, he smiled at his brother, and left the abandoned room of the loft.

**A/N:** Woot. So... I hate my life lately, so that's my excuse if I can't update. I'm on Christmas break, so I should have time to update, but with the way I'm feeling... I don't know.

Review to make me happy?

–Steph.

HAPPY HOLIDAYS!


	17. It Had to Be You

_All this time and everything's changed but I still feel the same.  
__All good things eventually end and get washed down the drain.  
__What a disaster it would be if you discovered that I cared,  
__A little too much for friends but not enough to share_.  
"It Had to Be You" Motion City Soundtrack

When Roger and Christian strolled into the kitchen, Sophie was the only one awake, bouncing Leah on her knee. "Look who it is!" she said happily in a baby voice, bouncing Leah more. "Look, Leah, it's Daddy!"

"Hey, Meems," Roger smiled, and crossed the room toward his daughter. The instant she was in his arms, she let out a giggle, and Roger threw her into the air. "You are my sunshine, my only sunshine, you make me happy when skies are grey!" he sang, and she laughed some more at the sound of her father's voice.

"Hey, Leah," Christian waved to the small girl, but she was too preoccupied with her father to notice the feeble gesture he offered.

"Where's Mark?" Roger asked, tickling Leah and leaning over her curls.

"In bed still," Sophie answered, and flushed a bright red, as she always did. Ever since they'd become an item, a small question of Mark made her blush like a sixth grader. When he saw this, Christian got a sickening feeling in his heart; a feeling that made him feel like he'd accidentally let the biggest fish he could possibly catch off the side of the boat.

And then again, if he was comparing her to fish, there were other options.

He heaved a sigh and walked over to the fridge, pulling it open and bending to peer inside. Beer. Beer and orange juice. That was something they _always _had at the loft: orange juice.

He took the OJ out of the fridge and then walked to the cabinets, retrieving a box of Ritz Crackers to go with his juice. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched as Mark entered the room and shared a short but sweet kiss with Sophie. When they pulled apart, they held each other, rocking slowly back and forth with their foreheads pressed together.

For a second, all he felt was pure rage, and his hand clenched around the orange juice in a death grip. Then, suddenly, he let go, and the half gallon landed on the ground, exploding, seeping through his socks.

Roger immediately stopped bouncing Leah. "Oh, man—"

At that moment, Leah began to scream.

"Did you have to drop the orange juice?" Roger half-shouted over the screaming baby. "Every time someone drops it, she freaks!"

"I'm sorry!" Christian quickly apologized, and bent, wiping the yellowish orange liquid from the floor.

Once again, in his peripheral vision, he saw Sophie smother a giggle and point at his bent form, and Mark smiled as well, though he didn't look half as innocent as Sophie did. Christian knew Mark was a smart guy, and he knew that Mark had caught on to what he was thinking. For a moment, he stopped moving, but Sophie put her hand on his cheek and asked him what was wrong, and he shook out of it.

"Christian, do you need any help with that?" Mark asked, and brushed by Sophie.

_No_, Chris thought, feverishly wiping up the half gallon of spilled juice. _No, I don't need your help_.

However, Mark was not picking up the mental waves Christian was sending him, and he was quickly on his knees next to him. "Listen, Chris, I'm sorry if me being with Sophie is making you angry—"

"It's fine," Chris grunted, putting a soaked paper towel on the counter, pulling another one off the roll, and getting back on his knees.

"It's just... you guys broke up a while ago, and—"

"It's _fine_," Christian repeated, this time louder and forceful. With it, he shoved the handful of paper towels at him in clear anger, nearly knocking Mark off of his own knees.

The conversation that had been in progress behind them immediately stopped, and the air instantly became awkward. As he rose, Christian's eyes met Sophie's, who looked swarmed with many different emotions. Roger took a step forward and reached out to his brother, full knowing what could happen if Christian didn't calm down. "Chris—"

"Can everybody just leave me the fuck alone?" he questioned, his tone belligerent. "Please? Just one fucking day, leave me the fuck alone?"

Silence.

Oblivious, Maureen stumbled into the room. "Why is—oh, Christian, you're still _here?_" She laughed. "I was hoping I wouldn't have to see you!"

Though this was their routine—every morning Maureen would come in and insult Christian, just to kid around, a friendly badgering—it was a bad time for Maureen to do such a thing, and Christian was simply set aflame. He turned and launched himself across the living room area, and Maureen's face turned to one of terror in an instant.

Collins appeared out of nowhere, it seemed, but was instantly restraining Christian with his entire body. Roger was soon there as well, and together the two of them grabbed Chris' arms and sat him down on the couch.

"Chris, what the fuck?" Roger asked, piping, towering over his little brother. "You don't fucking go after a girl!"

Christian didn't say anything; just stared right past Maureen and into the other room.

"You don't even care, do you?" Roger asked, and glared at the younger Davis. "The last month hasn't been exactly easy for her, okay? There was that whole stress period, wondering if she and Mark had AIDS or not—"

"So _what?_" Christian spat, "They _don't_, and you _do! _They're in no position to be complaining—they got checked out, they're fucking _fine!_"

"That's not how you're supposed to see it, jackass!"

Roger's shouts echoed through the room, and the atmosphere instantly switched. Behind Roger and Collins, Sophia buried her head into her hands. Out of the corner of his eye, Mark saw this, and walked over to her, pulling her into a hug, but she turned away and took a few steps.

"Chris—just... please. _Please_." Now Roger was almost begging, his tone pleading. "Just... don't get all stressed out, okay? This is no reason to get anxiety. Please. I'm alright, Maureen's alright—you know she doesn't mean that. And... we're all here for you, okay? If we weren't, you sure as well wouldn't be living here."

Chris's hands were shaking terribly, and his troubled eyes found Roger, who was eyeing him encouragingly. "I'm... I think I'm going to go up to the roof," Christian decided, and then turned around, looking scared, looking helpless, looking regretful. "I... I'm sorry," he apologized, and then took quick steps to get to the door. When it closed, Roger let out an angry roar and turned around in a huff.

"I can't believe this," Roger exhaled, and then sat on the couch. "Why does he have to be like this? Maureen, I'm sorry..."

She put her hands up. "No... it's alright. This is tough for him, I get it."

"It's my fault," Sophie cried, and then turned and began to sob into Mark's shoulder.

Nobody said it wasn't... because they couldn't deny the truth.

**A/N:** AH! I am SO SORRY! My internet died and I couldn't update and I'm really really really sorry! Finally! I know this is a bad update and this was written a very long time ago. I'M SORRY! If you're reading, PLEASE REVIEW!

–Steph.


	18. Broken Man

_It's here and now, I'm breaking out, I will learn to love again.  
__But I will stand a broken man.  
__I wanna run away, but only far enough to make you miss me.  
__I wanna take back all the shit that I have done  
__But I guess you are better off without me.  
_"Broken Man" Boys Like Girls

When Roger emerged onto the roof, a large collection of pigeons were startled by the opening door, therefore making his entrance more conspicuous than he'd wanted it to be. However, he went along with it, offering a feeble wave to his angered brother, who was clenching the side of the building, his knuckles white and his eyes bloodshot. It was a tad frightening that his younger brother was reminding him of a rabid animal, either that or Mark when he got out of the pool.

Because he could tell by his brother's heaving chest that no matter what he said, he would be proven wrong in some twisted way, Roger kept his mouth shut for a while, and the two of them stood idly on the roof, the sinister wind cutting into their bare faces. Roger felt himself begin to shiver, and he understood that he shouldn't be outside, but for Christian's sake, he really didn't give a shit.

About ten minutes after the original entrance of Roger, Christian seemed to snap into perspective and realize that his older brother had been standing next to him, waiting, the whole time. "Roger," he exhaled, and then stumbled backward, as if he were surprised that he was there. He turned backward, and then looked back forward.

"Christian," Roger countered, his voice level. He eyed his brother's tipsy footing and cocked his head to one side. "Are you okay?" his voice was serious and thick with concern.

"Roger," Christian repeated, and then his voice became rushed: "Roger!" He peeled off his jacket and draped it around Roger's shoulders, and then sat back down on the edge of the roof, the screaming city below them nearly giving Roger a heart attack—what if Chris fell? His footing hadn't been that great...

"What are you thinking about?" Roger asked, embarrassed that he was wearing his younger brother's coat, but knowing full well that he needed it. "What's wrong? I know that wasn't my brother in the other room, so tell me what happened."

"Sophie happened," Christian mumbled, and then looked up at Roger, their eyes meeting. Emerald on emerald.

It was quiet for a moment, and Roger searched Christian's eyes for something else; something that was definitely there but he could not pick out. Then, his voice became hushed. "There's something else," he reported, and then sat next to Chris on the edge of the roof. Chris cast his eyes backward, looking at the city. Roger hoped he wasn't contemplating jumping.

"Olivia," Christian let slip out in a whisper, and a tear slid out from underneath his lid. He tried to hide it, furiously wiping it away as he did so, but it didn't change Roger's outlook on him in the slightest: his brother was human, as was he.

The boys talked about their younger sister Ollie's death as scarcely as possible, only respecting it in October on the anniversary. They tried to keep her in heart and spirit in the happiest ways possible, but there were times like this where one of them would collapse and need to talk about it. The usual problem for Christian was that Sophie reminded him of Olivia to an alarming extent.

Roger screwed his own emotions shut in the back of his mind, trying not to think of the astounding similarities Leah and Mimi shared. He focused on Christian, feeling his heart begin to ache but not allowing it to show.

"I lost Sophie," Christian choked out, "and I feel like I've lost Ollie again," and he was sobbing, leaning forward, nearly losing his balance where he was perched on the roof.

Roger supported his brother's back. "You _chose _to lose Sophie, Christian," Roger noted quietly, not trying to rile his brother up but provide support and wisdom to the conversation.

"My _head _chose to lose Sophie, but my heart said to hang on," Christian argued. He shook his head. "It sounds overly dramatic, but every time she'd laugh, every time she'd get hurt, every time we'd play around, I could only think of _Olivia. _It hurt so badly, Roger," he whispered, his eyes piercing. "My heart still loved her, but my head was sick of getting her confused. You could ask Sophie how many times I called her 'Ollie' or 'Olivia,' and she'll tell you she can't count that high. And I broke it off, I said it was my fault, and it was... but now I miss her, Roger," Christian's voice had gotten progressively quieter.

Roger chewed Christian's words in his head, turning them over and trying to come up with an acceptable solution. "I'm not sure what I can say, Chris," Roger admitted, keeping his gaze away from Christian's. "When... I was at your house, the morning we took Leah to the hospital, she told me she had once had the biggest crush on Mark, when he was dating Maureen, I guess. Before you two started dating, of course. And... they seem pretty in love."

With every statement he spoke, Roger could see Christian flinch. "I know I'm not helping," Roger hurriedly added, "but... I don't know what you can do, really, man. Picture it as... she's not going anywhere. You're still friends. She's still going to be here," he pointed to his head, "and here." And he covered his heart with his hand. "Just like Olivia," he finished.

Now Christian was crying, leaning against the side of the roof.

An idea struck Roger, and he grinned a wicked grin. Standing up, he stood in front of Christian. "And just so you always know..." he shoved Christian, watching his brother's terrified face as he tilted backward, leaning toward the city—but then, Roger grabbed his brother and righted him, smiling pleasantly. "I've always got your back."

Christian's hand found his chest where his heart would be, and he shook his head. "And yet..." his now long hair sat in his eyes and he blew it out. "Maureen will never forgive me after what I did," he muttered darkly, "I still can't believe I did that..."

"Hey, it was the anxiousness talking. You've always had problems with that. Anger management. It's okay. Maureen's always overly dramatic anyhow, and if she doesn't learn how to accept your apology, then I say screw her. She's only made your time being here more miserable, no?"

Christian quickly shook his head. "No, she makes me feel like a part of this family... she's sort of like crazy Great Aunt Cathy; remember, she always wanted us _dead_, but she sent us the _best _presents on Christmas?"

"Oh yeah!" Roger clapped his brother on the shoulder. "Haha, I remember her! Didn't she die or something?"

"Either that or she just stopped sending us gifts..." he trailed off. "Anyway, I thank Maureen for being here. She's a great friend, though she does get annoying sometimes. Now I'm just afraid to go down and face her..."

"She won't say anything, I promise. I won't let her. Now, c'mon, before I catch something up here," Roger smiled, and led his brother toward the stairs.

**A/N: **Short. Filler. More or less boring, oh wells, get over it. XD It'll get exciting soon enough...

–Steph.


	19. Better Days

_And you ask me what I want this year,  
__And I try to make this kind and clear,  
__Just a chance that maybe we'll find better days.  
__Cause I don't need boxes wrapped in strings,  
__And desire and love and empty things,  
__Just a chance that maybe we'll find better days.  
_"Better Days" The Goo Goo Dolls.

Maureen was simply happy to see Christian alive.

When Roger and Christian entered the loft, the younger Davis slightly hidden by his brother, Maureen quite literally pushed Roger over and threw her arms around Christian's neck, kissing him on the cheek and resting her head on his shoulder. "I'm so sorry, Chris, I didn't mean to make you angry—I would've never said that if I knew what was going on—I'm really sorry, I'm such an oblivious bitch—"

"Woah, woah, Maureen," Christian stroked her back softly, "it's okay, _I'm _sorry, I shouldn't have reacted like that..." his hands bunched into fists. "It won't happen again," he reassured her, and she smiled at him and disentangled herself from his grip.

"I think we need to go Christmas shopping today," Joanne, who had apparently awoken while Roger was on the roof with Christian, said, yawning and fixing a scarf around her neck. "Down by Tompkins Square Park—shall we?" she questioned, and took a step toward the door.

"I'm... poor," Christian sheepishly admitted, and Roger let out a loud laugh.

"As am I, brethren, and yet she shall go with our friends to the Park of Square Tompkins," he announced with a British accent, and alas, Christian agreed to go with his friends.

The walk to the Tompkins Square Park area was a fun one—Mark and Sophia remained attached at the hip, Roger was holding a laid-back conversation with Christian, Joanne and Maureen were talking civilly, conversing about something that Christian couldn't quite catch. Collins was tagging alongside the two girls, inhaling the air of the city and looking generally happy, which Christian was happy to see.

"Alright..." Roger trailed off, eyeing a few of the passerby and nudging Christian's arm slightly. "This is Roger's Reform School of Landing Hot Babes," he narrated softly, leaning in toward his brother. "We're gonna land you a chick... and you're gonna ask her out on a date and get over the loss of that other girl whose name I can't remember."

"Sophie—?"

"SHHHH!" Roger whacked Christian's arm. "Alright, alright, incoming, nine o'clock."

When Christian finally located the girl, she was _not_, in fact, at nine o'clock, she was more at five, but Roger strolled over and complimented her on her hair, and then introduced her to Christian.

"Hello," she smiled at Chris and waved, but then turned her attention back to Roger. "Are you... busy tonight?"

Roger's face instantly turned to stone, and his eyes went darker. "I..."

"Sorry, he's taken," Christian half-spat, and then led his older brother away from the woman. "It's alright, Rog, I really don't need a girl, I guarantee that's going to happen every time—"

"No, no," Roger shook his head, "it's alright, Christian, you need a babe. Let's see... oh, look, she's parking—look at her bumper sticker, 'Cartographers United.' She does something with maps... go say something geologically smart to her." Roger gave Chris a little push.

_Geologically smart... I failed geography as a student... what the hell is geologically? What does that even mean? Um... something smart... I could tell her New York was in the north east? Wait, is it _even_? Um... I could—_

Christian noticed he'd been standing in front of this girl with a puzzled expression on his face. "Oh! Um... are you from... T-Tennessee? Because... you're the only ten I see...?"

The girl, her long blonde hair flowing with her what looked like a resume binder in her hands, scoffed, flipped her hair, and then stalked off, each click of her heels making Christian cringe inside. Head hanging, he turned and walked back to Roger, feeling dejection seep into his mind. "I suck at thiiiiis," he whined, and staggered next to his brother once more.

At that moment, he noticed Roger in fits of laughter, nearly crying and falling over. Chris whacked him. "Don't laugh at me! _Sophie _asked _me_, and she just thought I was cute for almost passing out when she told me she liked my haircut! I had to do quite literally nothing! All these pick up lines are killing me!"

"Alright, alright... here's the one that made April laugh when I first asked her," Roger smiled, and then leant in and whispered something in Christian's ear.

Christian let out a loud, whooping laugh, and nodded, searching the streets for a victim to use this line on. Finally, he discovered the perfect girl, and he took off confidently, grinning from ear to ear as the wind blew through his now long hair. He tapped the girl on her shoulder, her small frame slowly turning and her black hair flipping in the wind. Her blue eyes pierced his own green ones, and he was suddenly struck by how beautiful she was, and the way that he lost his breath almost frightened him.

"Hello," she smiled, and his heart melted. She seemed to be giving him a stationary once-over as well.

"H-Hey," he stuttered, and flashed a winning crooked smile. His heart swelled up and he studied her a moment more—he almost didn't want to use Roger's line in fear of her not liking him, but he gathered the courage that had been misplaced and he took in a deep breath. He looked down at her shoes and then back up at her face, grinning again and saying, "Nice shoes; wanna fuck?"

**It was about **ten minutes after the initial loss of the two, Mark calculated, that they noticed Christian and Roger weren't with them, judging by the odd silence that had suddenly come over them. He held his camera in one hand, and Sophie's hand in the other, and they strolled down the street, Joanne, Collins and Maureen behind them, Collins clearly trying to stifle his coughs and look happy.

Mark broke away from Sophie's grasp, smiling and then walking over to a street vendor. He thought of what to get for presents; probably just a picture for Roger, something nice for Maureen and Joanne, something thoughtful for Sophie, of course, something funny for Christian, but what was he going to get for _Collins?_

The man he'd known for almost his whole life; the man who'd lost his world and went on living in it.

Sophie came up behind him and wrapped her arms around his waist. "Whatcha thinking about?"

At that moment, Mark's eyes went wide, and he grinned. "I've got an idea."

**A/N: **And I finally update! And a perfect update, too, for Valentine's Day:) Hope you all had great Valentines, I know mine was! ;)

This chapter was supposed to be more lighthearted; clearly less well written, but a nice relief from the angsty angst that is usually here.

"Nice shoes; wanna fuck?" is credited to my boyfriend. XD Ahaha. You don't wanna know.

Alright. So. I landed Adelaide in Guys and Dolls in my school—whoop whoop, party over here. Not necessarily a fantastic excuse, but it is nonetheless exciting.

Huge thankies to Rajah, simply for offering to help and sometimes tending to virtually beat my ass when I don't update this damn fic. And for the suggestions for Mark's gift to Collins—revealed soon enough—and enforcing me to put the song at the beginning. It is a GREAT song, and it's SOOO relevant to RENT that it's not even funny. It's also on forget regret . Net, the featured video—watch it, it's so freaking amazing.

Positive reviews make me want to squee like a fangirl.

-Steph.


	20. Life On Standby

_The distance and my heart's to sand, flowing through the hourglass,  
__Time to let go of all we know and break our hearts in stride.  
__I need you now more like yesterday, the last day I could see you smile.  
__For the last time turn out the lights, my life on standby.  
__So standby and watch this fall away and fall apart,  
__Just say that it's over, it's over and she's gone.  
_"Life On Standby" Hawthorne Heights

Evelina wasn't sure what she liked about this particular boy, but she knew he was special, judging by what he'd said to her to get her attention. When she'd spun around, she expected someone with wise eyes, someone intelligent—they hadn't walked in front of her, or said something rude, they'd simply tapped her shoulder lightly, with hands that were soft and gentle. Her eyes met his, and he looked dazed, and she sure _felt _dazed, for he had stunned her, though she tried to play it off.

After "Nice shoes, wanna fuck?", he smiled and shook his head, adding, "I'm sorry, my idiot brother told me to do it... I didn't know I'd be so worried the girl would kick me in the balls and run away," he admitted, a sheepish smile on his lips. "And I didn't know she'd be this pretty and interesting..." he studied his own shoes, which were ripped boots, and Evelina laughed.

"I'm Evelina," she said, trying her hardest not to blush. She stuck out her hand to shake his, and he accepted. His hands were soft, but rugged; gentle but strong. When they separated, she looked up at him—he was quite tall—and smiled. "Are you going to tell me your name?"

He shook his head and blushed again, and how cute he was struck her again. "Oh, right, sorry... I'm not really good with this meet-and-greet thing... heh. I guess I just get really nervous and start to repeat myself, and I ramble a lot—"

God, was he adorable. "Is asking for your name this hopeless for all girls?" she asked, wondering if he was some sort of socially deformed person.

"Not all girls are this pretty," he admitted, and she tried not to blush again.

There was a silence, a silence in which Evelina began to giggle again.

"What?" he asked, dumbfounded, cocking his head to one side like a confused dog would do.

"Your name?"

He flushed. "Oh, right! As you can see, I'm a little slow—"

In an attempt to stop his vicious rambling, she reached all the way up and placed her hands on his shoulders, staring directly into his eyes. It was odd how she could do this so easily with a man she'd just met, a cute man at that, but still a man nonetheless, and not feel awkward in any way, shape, or form. She kept her gaze locked with his, and he smiled weakly, looking dazed.

"Christian," he whispered, and she smiled.

"Well, Christian, you may call me Eva, and you may call me tonight, if you wish," she grinned and pulled out a piece of paper from her purse, writing her phone number neatly on it and handing it to him.

"Okay, Eva, and you may call me Chris, and call me whenever _you'd _like." He tore the paper in half and wrote the loft's number on it, and they stood there, a bit awkward.

"Alright, well, I'm going to be late for the family shindig," she smiled, and he smiled back. "I'll talk to you later tonight, I hope?"

"Oh, of course," he nodded. "Bye, Evelina!"

"Bye, Christian," she grinned, and turned and walked away.

This time, the clicks of her heels didn't make him cringe, it simply made him happier. When he turned around, Roger was standing there, giving him two huge thumbs up. "I got a phone number!" Chris shouted when Roger was in earshot and Eva was out. "She's so nice, Roger, and I screwed up but it was okay! Oh, my God, you are amazing, she laughed at the line!"

"Good," Roger grinned, and gave his brother a hug. "Now c'mon, everyone's ahead of us."

**Collins could feel **Mark's eyes on him everywhere he moved, every time he coughed he felt Mark stiffen. What had he been thinking, telling the most anxious person of the group? He should've told Maureen—no, Maureen would've told everyone. Roger? No, Roger would've felt his own impending doom lurk closer. He should've told Joanne... she'd try to talk sense into him, and he didn't want to hear it. He couldn't tell Christian, Christian would break down in fear of Roger... he would've told Angel.

But Angel was dead; that was the bottom line there. And he'd never be able to speak to her again, until he died.

But how long was it supposed to be until he died? Was he going to die painfully, as Angel had? Or maybe God would spare him and let it be quick and painless, or he could always end it himself to ensure that—

No. He couldn't do that. He couldn't do that to Roger, not after April had killed herself. He couldn't do that to Mark, who would know why. He just couldn't do that to his family, there was no way.

Sighing, he took a seat on a bench, watching Mark film Sophia animatedly, as the girl giggled and tried to turn away from it. Maureen and Joanne were smiling and talking, having a normal conversation and seemingly enjoying it. They were easier friends than lovers, that was sure. Collins was watching the passerby, something that always entertained him.

He felt Mark's eyes on him again, and he said something to Sophie before walking over to the bench and sitting behind Collins. "Are you—"

"Mark, I'm fine," he answered for the hundredth time. "I told you so you would know and wouldn't gossip about it. Can we please keep it on the DL? I don't want to freak anyone out." A steady rhythm thrummed viciously in his head, a pounding sensation that wasn't very comfortable. "Please, Mark, I'm trying to make this work for all of us. Just... go with me on this."

When he turned to look at Mark, the other man nodded and put an arm around Collins' shoulder. "It'll be okay, man. You'll see her soon."

Shocked, Collins decided that Mark was a mind reader, for he felt in no way had he expressed his thoughts of Angel, and how he missed her so, and wished to see her. It'd been so long, and he hadn't had enough strength to go through all her old stuff and look at her old pictures. He feared how he would feel, he feared being... well, he feared being afraid. He feared lacking courage.

"It's okay to be scared, man," Mark whispered, and Collins thought he saw tears in the man's eyes, but instead of dwelling on that, he leant his head against Mark's shoulders, and he let himself cry.

**A/N:** :( Poor Collins.

Woohoo, twenty chapters. Tell me what you think of Evelina; she's clearly Italian, and she's got sort of a Mary Sue-esque name, but she won't be a Mary Sue. In fact, I don't know if she'll stick around really long; tell me what you think of her.

Well, I'm on vacation, so I should update quicker! Woot woot. Reviews make me want to doodle oodle until I drop!

–Steph.


	21. Sophomore Slump or Comeback of the Year

_Are we growing up or just going down?  
It's just a matter of time until we're all found out.  
Take our tears, put 'em on ice,  
Cause I swear, I'd burn the city down to show you the light.  
_"Sophomore Slump or Comeback of the Year" Fall Out Boy

When the clock struck six PM, Christian Thomas Davis had never been more nervous in all his life. Well, maybe that time when he was doing that huge piano recital in front of the college scouts in his junior year—but other than that, yeah, he was pretty nervous.

When he'd met Sophie and went on the first date with her, it was all so easy. He'd already known her for a long time, they'd met through peer counseling, they knew enough about each other for it to not be difficult. Other than that, he really hadn't had a serious relationship with another girl, nor had he cared for one. Sure, he'd had the occasional one night stand, but that was never really something he was proud of or cared for the outcome of.

Shirtless, he was standing in the middle of Roger's room, rifling through his brother's closet in search of something to wear. "God dammit, man, I haven't done this in so freaking long," he growled, checking for stains on a striped shirt of Roger's. "I don't even _own _anything nice anymore—and if I did, I bet it's at the bottom of the most covered up box _in _this place."

Roger emerged from an adjoined part of his room, holding up a brown jacket wordlessly. He remembered when Christian moved in at the end of November, how many boxes he _didn't _have. He'd sold almost everything he owned, as well as the house, which didn't have as much property value as he'd wished. Though it was a big house, and a nice one at that, the value had gone very far down since he'd bought it.

The money he made from it granted them rent for at least four months, along with plentiful money for food. Needless to say, they weren't going to be worried about funds for a long time.

As of now, the only thing that worried Christian was what he was going to freaking _wear_. "Okay, coat is fine, but Roger, I need some actual _clothing!_" he walked over to his brother and placed his hands on the other man's shoulders, shaking. "Do you understand me?"

Roger laughed and nodded, saying "Yes" and walking over to the closet. "Well, I'm sorry, I haven't exactly been dating lately either, as you can imagine... never really did, either. I mean, Mimi more or less asked _me _out... or, rather, came through the window and shoved her tongue down my throat—April was part of the Well Hungarians, and every other chick really didn't matter much, I just banged her for kicks." His smile grew as he proceeded through the speech, and Christian smiled back.

Because Christian had known Roger his entire life, watched him grow, he was happy with the man Roger had become at twenty-four years of age. Though his brother had seen too much in his life, he had clearly grown wiser, and Christian could see Roger had grown out of his rocker days. Ever since April killed herself, Roger was wiser. Ever since Mimi had passed, Roger took less things for granted.

"Wear this, Chris," Roger called from inside of his closet, and threw a button-down grey shirt over his shoulder. Christian, only clad in his neat and holeless jeans, pulled the shirt over his shoulders and smiled, nodding.

"Alright... this'll work. Jacket, shirt, pants... I need some _shoes_."

"You don't have _shoes? _What about all those club days you had back in your old house?" Roger exclaimed, eyes widened at his younger brother.

"I wanted to end my clubbing days... I threw _all _of that shit out, man." Christian sighed and got on his knees in the closet, searching for a pair of nice shoes. "Boots... boots... sandals... boots... that's it. God damn, Roger, what do _you _wear?"

"I'm sure Mark has a nice pair of loafers you can borrow," Roger cracked, grinning, but Christian took him seriously.

His shirt half-buttoned, Christian exited the bedroom and entered the kitchen. "_Mark!_" He shouted, cupping his hands over his mouth.

He didn't notice that Mark was sitting on the couch, right near where he was screaming. "...Yeah?"

Chris pivoted, and then blushed. "Oh, sorry. Heh. Right... um, do you have a pair of shoes that I can wear on this date I have tonight?"

"Ooh, date for the C-Man... good to hear it, Chris," Mark smiled and stood, walking toward his room. "Yeah, what are you looking for?"

Christian followed Mark into his bedroom, shrugging his shoulders. "I don't know, something that doesn't make me look like a total loser who has nothing acceptable to wear to a nice date with a pretty Italian girl," he shrugged. "Translation: something that's not a pair of boots."

Mark laughed, "I see you've already been through Roger's closet, then."

"Yeah."

There were a few more moments of silence where Mark shifted various things out of the way in his closet, throwing box after box of film reels out of the way to come out with a pair of black shoes, not _too _dressy, but clearly not used every day. Christian smiled graciously and produced a pair of socks from his jeans pocket, shoving them on his feet and then jamming the shoes on after. "Tight fit, but I'll do it," Christian grinned, and then nodded his head toward Mark. "Thanks, Markie."

"No problem, Christoph," Mark replied, and followed Christian out of the room. "So, who's the girl?" he asked conversationally as the two reentered the kitchen area of the loft. Mark walked over to the coffee machine and poured himself a cup, and Christian sat at the island and finished buttoning his shirt.

"Her name's Evelina," when he spoke her name, an involuntary smile climbed upon his lips and stayed there, and Mark nearly dropped his coffee.

"Evelina...?"

"I don't know her last name," Christian admitted sheepishly. "I just met her today for a second, she said she was on the way to a family shindig."

"... we must not be talking about the same Evelina, then," Mark shook his head. "_I _know an Evelina, Evelina Castellano, she used to work at Buzzline, she wrote a few scripts for us. She quit after her mother died, who was apparently the last family she had left, she was a nice woman. She doesn't have much money, apparently. Young, petite, black hair, eyes bluer than mine—"

"You just described Eva," Christian gasped, his gaze locking with Mark's. "That's _exactly _what she looks like, and Evelina isn't that common of a name." He tapped his foot, in thought. "But why would she lie about something like that? Maybe... she already has a boyfriend and... _no_, why would she ask me to call her? This makes no sense."

"Well, I don't know, people have reasons," Mark shrugged. "She was a _mess _when her mom died, apparently she was really close with her... and that was the last person she had. It was sad."

"Christian! You were supposed to be out of here five minutes ago!" Roger cried from his bedroom, and Christian nearly fell off the stool he was sitting on. "You'd better get your ass running to the Life if you don't want to be considered a loser who's late for the first date!"

"I'm going!" Christian smoothed out his shirt and then bid Mark goodbye, and called a thank-you to Roger. "I'll be back before curfew!" he joked, and the last sound he heard was Roger's whooping laughter when he left the building.

He nearly ran down the streets, dodging the busybodies of Alphabet City, and then finally entered the Life Café. He did a short search of the room for Evelina, and when he found her, she was sitting at a table, sipping an ice water from a straw, looking patient.

He alerted the waiter that he was going to be joining the party of one, and surprised her when he sat down across from her. "Hey, I'm so sorry I'm late, I had to steal shoes from my brother's friend, and—"

"Hey, hey, it's fine," she smiled sweetly, "I'm just always early, and I don't think you're late, either." She looked at her watch. "Yeah, see? Six ten, the date wasn't even until six fifteen. You're early, too." She smiled again, and Christian felt himself melt again. She was wearing a simple black tee, with dark washed jeans and the same black shoes she'd been wearing today. She looked like a million bucks, even though Mark claimed she wasn't worth near that.

"Alright, _so_." She began, stirring her water with her straw, "Tell me a bit about yourself."

Christian whined. "Why do _I _have to go first?"

She stuck out her tongue, "Because I asked first."

He grinned. "Alright... well. Where do I start?"

"At the beginning?"

"Ha-ha, very funny. Alright, well, my name is Christian Davis, and I'm twenty-one. Uh... I have an older brother named Roger, and a niece named Leah. Uh... let me put this out here now; I am incredibly poor. We live in that old industrial loft on the corner of eleventh and Avenue B, the one that looks like it's going to fall at any second. I live there with Roger and his friend, Mark Cohen, and their other friend, Tom Collins."

"Mark Cohen! I used to work with him," Eva's sapphire eyes lit up. "Buzzline. We always joked about how much the place sucked," she smiled broadly. "He's a good guy. And you live with him?"

"Yeah, him, Roger's brother, Collins, and Mark's girlfriend, Sophia. And... our friends Maureen and Joanne basically live there as well. It gets really, really loud in that place..." he rubbed his temples. "Uh, what else?"

"Hobbies?" she shrugged.

"Oh, right. Well... I used to play piano. Still do, I guess. My entire family's musically inclined, I guess. Roger used to play guitar for the Well Hungarians, if you remember them at all."

"I remember them, definitely. I used to _love _them. They were big until... wow, whatever happened to them?"

"I'm not sure," Christian lied, figuring that if Roger wanted her to know about April's suicide, she'd have to tell her himself. "And... my little sister used to play a wicked violin, it was crazy."

"Oh, it's a shame she quit."

_Quit. _It was funny how people tried to be helpful in conversations, try to follow and be kind, and yet they hit the nerve that hurts the most. Christian controlled his breathing and stared down at the Splenda packets next to him, heaving a sigh. "Well, she didn't have much of a choice, actually... she died," he admitted.

Telling someone about Ollie's death was sort of like blowing out all the candles on a birthday cake at once; you succeed without pain, and yet when you were done you were left out of breath and a bit dazed.

"Oh, my God, Christian, I'm so sorry," Eva whispered, putting her hand on top of his. "I really didn't mean to do that, God, I'm sorry—" she put her head down. "I know how you feel, I'm really sorry I did that. Let's change subjects—let's talk about me."

"It's okay, Eva," Christian admitted, looking up and offering a smile. Her hand felt warm on his, and oddly, it wasn't awkward—it felt _right. _So, as they sat there, and she spoke, they kept their hands clasped.

"Well, I'm Evelina Castellano, I _just _turned twenty-one last week. And..." she heaved a sigh. "I've got no family," she admitted, looking down, just as Christian had done when he spoke of Ollie's death.

"I'm sorry to hear that," Christian said gently, leaning in closer toward her. "So... the family shindig—"

"A party I was invited to, my friends hosted it. I call them my family because I've really got no one else to call that." She shrugged. "It's not too big of a deal—I know people who have worse," she sported a smile and looked into Christian's eyes. "And don't even ask me about hobbies... I've got a grand total of, like, nothing. Reading. I love to read, and... be outside. That's it."

"Well, that's better than nothing."

The waiter came at that moment, and they each ordered something to eat, continuing to chat as they did so. Christian couldn't help but notice how different this girl was from all the others; she was honest, she was nice, she was beautiful. She was perfect for him, as far as she was concerned. But he wasn't going to move to fast and blow it.

The night came to an end, something that Christian was dreading. And as they stood in front of the Life Café, staring into each others' eyes happily, Christian leant in and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

"Goodnight," he smiled, and she smiled back.

"Goodnight," she echoed.

**A/N:** I don't know why, but this chapter came so much easier to me than all the others. Anyway, soon we shall be out of the land of Christian and Evelina and enter one more exciting... at least I'm hoping.

And I'm SORRRRRRRY if Evelina seems like a Mary-Sue, I swear her lack of family is the only thing that's wrong with her. That's IT. I will NOT create a Mary-Sue out of her.

By the way, if you're reading this, PLEEEAAAASE review. I got like... three reviews for the last chapter, and twenty four people have it on alerts! And I _know _who's not reviewing... ;)

–Steph.


	22. In Fate's Hands

_Oh, wish I could thank you all for what you have done  
__And all of the things that you have shared with me.  
Oh, wish I could take you all to where I must go, wish I could take you all  
I'll take you with my heart.  
_"In Fate's Hands" The Red Jumpsuit Apparatus

When Mark opened his eyes, something about the air did not seem Christmasy. Instead of waking up and making coffee for everyone as he always did on December 25th, he wanted to lay back down and wait for the day to pass by. Stay next to Sophie in bed all day. But, using his better judgement (he didn't want Roger to kill him, Roger without coffee is bad news), he slowly rose out of bed and skulked into the kitchen, approaching the coffee machine slowly.

The Christmas tree in the kitchen area, right near the long metal table next to the windows, was large and still thriving with life, something that Collins claimed was the workings of Angel. Every year they got a Christmas tree, it was always dying, and this year, Maureen had insisted upon getting one. They placed an Angel at the top, and Mark managed to find two thin tubes used for whatever to look like drumsticks. The tree hadn't shown signs of dying.

The coffee maker was done, and he made himself a cup, and Roger a cup, predicting that Roger would be the next one awake—he was like a five-year-old, come Christmastime. Always the first one up and next to the tree, begging to open his gifts.

As if on cue, Roger came running into the kitchen, looking wildly around for anyone else, his face falling when he laid eyes on Mark. "Damn..." he muttered, and then walked over, taking his black coffee with him and sitting on the couch, staring at the Christmas tree as if it were its fault.

"Nice try, Roger," Mark smirked, and sat at the table, sipping his coffee slowly. "Who do you think'll be up next?"

"Collins," Roger instantly replied, and then he chuckled a bit. "I went to check if he was awake yet, and slammed the door a little too loud on my way out—oh, _crap!_" he produced a small package out of his plaid pants' pocket—judging by how tight the pants were on him, Mark was surprised he could fit a package of its size in the pocket without imprinting it on his thigh—and looked about wildly. "I gotta wrap this shit!" he exclaimed, and then jumped up, darting into the kitchen.

Almost like he were Godzilla, Collins let out a loud, explosive, warning yawn, prompting Roger to panic and make a dive for the coffee filters. Mark started laughing, trying to keep it quiet for Roger's sake, but failing.

Producing tape from God knows where, Roger began to tape five or ten coffee filters around the package messily, and he made a running dive for the tree, which he slid underneath and dropped the package on the other side, so it looked like he hadn't placed it there.

Collins walked in, and for effect, Mark yelled, "Roger! I told you not to go near the presents!" he threw a pencil that had been on the table at him, nailing him in the back of the neck.

"Ow! Fine, Mark..." he muttered, and sat back on the couch, mouthing "thank you!" to his friend. Mark shook his head and scoffed, but winked.

"Thanks for making coffee, Mark," Collins yawned, and poured himself a cup, sitting next to Mark at the table, the two of them staring at Roger with amused looks. "He'll never change, will he?"

"Probably not," Mark decided, and smiled. "Did Santa come this year?"

"I'll check!" Roger cried, and dove next to the presents. He studied a few of them and then looked up, nodding. "Yep," he nodded, and then stared back at the gifts again. "Jesus, they bought gifts for _everyone_."

Every year, Mark would play the role of "Santa," somehow coming up with funds to provide gifts for every one of their friends anonymously in addition to his marked gifts. He swore it wasn't him, as did everyone else in the group—so, "Santa" remained unidentified, and Mark always felt happy with the gifts and how people responded to them.

Collins let out a low whistle. "Wow."

"'Santa,'" Roger began, using air quotes, "must be selling themself to prostitution when we aren't looking."

Mark was sure his face morphed into a tomato-ish color, but he laughed, and by the way his friends didn't call him out on anything, or stare at him, he figured he'd be okay. The mental image he gave _himself_ when he thought about selling himself to prostitution—well, let's say it didn't make Mark Cohen happy.

"Where's Leah?"

"Still with Mrs. Johnson," Roger rolled his eyes. "She's had her for three days now, Maureen says she's in love with her, but I want her here for Christmas. Mo's going to bring her over when she decides to come—"

"We're heeeeeere!" Maureen sang, holding the baby in front of her face as she entered the loft. Leah giggled, her eyes lighting up when she saw her father, and Roger leapt up from the floor and cradled the baby in his arms.

"Hey, Meems," he grinned, and kissed her on the forehead. "Merry Christmas!"

"Joanne's coming... we... well, we sort of... got back together," Maureen sheepishly admitted, and Collins let out a long, aggrivated sigh.

"Make up your minds already!" he declared, his voice loud enough to wake up Sophia, who came stumbling in as he finished scolding Maureen. "Do you guys love each other or hate each other? Stop arguing!"

Maureen had flushed, and she was standing awkwardly in the middle of the room with a happy expression on her face. "We're trying to work things out," she added, and when Joanne walked into the room, she also looked happy, her face distant with a smile on it. Maureen's hand found hers and the two of them journeyed next to the tree, where Joanne placed their gifts and the two of them sat.

Christian came in a short moment later, dragging his feet as he entered the room. "Why are you guys making such a racket? It's—_oh! _It's _Christmas!_" he slid into the room and sat next to Roger on the couch.

"Is that everyone?" Mark asked, his voice small as he counted his friends. One down from Christmastime last year, two down from the first Christmas they had together... who would be next?

The question he asked himself was alarming; he quickly shut his gaping mouth and cast his eyes down. It shocked him, it was a bad way to think, but it was a truthful thing to ponder. So far they/d been down one more person with each passing year, and as he searched the eyes of his friends, he had a sinking feeling in his heart that Collins would be next.

"Hellooooo, Earth to Mark?" Maureen was yelling, and Roger was in front of his face, waving baby Leah's hand in front of his face.

"Uncle Maaaaaarky!" he cried in a baby voice, and Mark focused.

"Sorry, what were you saying?"

"You want to pass out gifts?"

"Oh, right," he stood up, taking Leah from Roger's arms, and he sat next to the tree, placing the little girl in his lap. One by one, he and Leah had passed out all the gifts, which had been opened an enjoyed. The ones from Santa remained by the tree, a tradition that had began the year Santa started coming—open their gifts last.

Mark's gift to Collins had been a collection of various films of Angel, and when Collins unwrapped them, he began to cry, and he thanked Mark. When he got to Roger's gift, which was a pocket watch, he emitted a loud laugh at how it was wrapped. It was good to see Collins happy, Mark decided.

Roger's gift from Mark had been similar—a bunch of old videos of Mimi, Mimi and Roger, and even a few of Mimi and Leah, though the majority of those had been of Mimi in a hospital bed.

Santa's gifts were passed out, and they were opened one at a time. First was Sophia—the gift she'd received was a fifty dollar gift certificate to one of the most expensive restaurants in Alphabet City, which she loved, and demanded to know who Santa was—nobody spoke up, so she thanked each one of them.

Next up were Maureen, and then Joanne—Mo got a pair of diamond earrings, Joanne got a new briefcase that was engraved with her name, and both were simply ecstatic.

Collins' gift was very large—when he pulled away the wrapping paper, he was shocked to see Angel's old pickle tub. "Oh... my God," he exhaled. "I... where did you _find _this?" he made eye contact with each person in the room before giving up on discovering who Santa was. "I... I thought it was gone," his voice was a small whisper.

He looked on the inside and began to cry again—pictures of Angel, her old dresses, her old wigs, even her drumsticks, which had been left at the cemetery, or at least Collins had _thought_. Every single aspect that had once been Angel was in the pickle tub, except for her casket.

Roger helped Leah open her own gift, which consisted of her mother's old cookbook, and a very small guitar made for a young child. Roger grinned and opened his—Mimi's old leopard coat, the beads that had once hung in her apartment, old picture frames, CDs.

Roger began to cry, too.

Christian gave his brother a hug. His own gift had been a very _very _large book of sheet music of oldies music, music that Christian had loved his whole life.

Mark's own Santa gift he'd bought for himself—more filming rolls and other various equipment for his camera, which he'd pretended to be surprised at and fully acted the part.

The twinkle in Collins' eye said something, and when Sophie and Maureen rose to prepare Christmas breakfast, Collins grabbed Mark's hand. "Come here, Mark..."

Mark closed his eyes._ Crap_.

**A/N:** Having nothing to do on vacation _sucks_. I quite literally did _nothing _this vacation (I was on vacation all of this week), prompting me to slip into a mental breakdown earlier yesterday, because I just do too much thinking when I have nothing to do. To be happy, I need to be busy, more or less. So as I wrote this, I was not feeling very CS-esque, so it may suck.

Well... I tried.

–Steph.


	23. The Hill

_Looking up the hill tonight when you have closed your eyes,  
__I wish I didn't have to make all those mistakes and be wise.  
__Please try to be patient and know that I'm still learning,  
__I'm sorry that you have to see the strength inside me burning.  
_"The Hill" Markéta Irglová

When Collins had led Mark into a secluded part of the loft, he brushed the dust off of a box and sat down on it, testing it for strength before he fully put his weight on it. His eyes followed Mark until Mark took a spot leaning against the wall across from him, and Collins had a mixed look of gratefulness and anger upon his features. "Okay, Mark," he exhaled, not making eye contact. "Explain yourself?"

"Explain what?" Mark asked, and it was too innocent.

"Mark," Collins gave him a level look, one that said "don't try this, I already know what you're doing," and Mark closed his eyes. "Mark—or should I say _Santa Claus?_ How did you get all that money? You're not fooling me. I'm too wise, at this point. I'm seeing right through your outer shell these days, Cohen, and I'm not sure if I'm going to be able to see through it much longer than today."

That could've been interpreted a few ways, Mark knew that, but he took it in _just _the way he knew it was supposed to have been interpreted—he froze, his heart skipped a beat, and he eyed Collins nervously. "Collins," his voice was level. "Collins, how much longer do you have?" He said it almost as if it weren't a question, and Collins looked at his feet.

"Not much longer, Mark," Collins whispered, and Mark watched as a single tear dripped out of the older man's eye. "Mark, it's not scary," he said, his voice trembling with each word he spoke, "it's just... like, I want it to be over, fast. I don't want to be sitting here waiting for it to get me. I want to _know _when it's going to happen. I've always hated surprises... you know that."

Mark's mind flickered back to when they'd thrown Collins a surprise party and he'd screamed and nearly dropped everything he'd been carrying. Yeah, Collins was never a big fan of surprises.

"Collins..." he began, but he didn't know what to say. Running a hand through his hair, he exhaled, and then looked out the window—New York City was going about its day as usual, not knowing that people were dying left and right due to this horrible disease. Or, they _did _know, but they didn't care.

No, they didn't care at _all_, it was just another part of the news that pissed them off when they were waiting for the weather report in the morning, until it affected _them_. Then they knew _exactly _what was going on, they paid _attention _to that part of the news, not caring if it rained or snowed, as long as they knew what was going on with AIDS.

Collins was looking at him, shaking his head and nearly chuckling. "Mark... I worry about you... a lot."

"Why is that?"

"Look at you. You have to worry about _all _of us, watch _all _of us kick the bucket, and then who are you left with? Mo and Jo, the two most likely to split and leave you here. I'm sorry if that makes it harder for you, but I really sympathize for you, man. I'd do anything to switch with you and make this easier on you. You've always been here for all of us, Mark, and we all want to help you out, but once we're gone, we can't. We'd like to repay you for all you've done, but it's physically impossible a task for us to do with the short time we have left."

"Don't say it like tha—"

"Mark. Would you look at us?" Collins demanded, looking up, tears in his eyes. "How old was Mimi? Nineteen. Not legally old enough to drink. She never had kids, never got married. Ran away from home at fifteen, never lived in a nice home. She never knew what real family was. She wanted two children and Roger as a husband. She wanted a normal life. She wanted a huge twenty-first birthday bash, she wanted to drink her first _legal _drink. She wanted to travel. She wanted to teach dance to young children. She wanted to effect _so many _young lives—"

"Collins—" Mark tried to intervene, Collins' voice was rising, getting more hysterical as he spoke, but he only began to speak louder.

"—but all of that was _taken _from her! Nineteen years of age, and she _died _of AIDS! She made the mistake of dropping out of rehab, because she did goddamn _drugs_, she wanted to die _clean! _But she never _did_, she didn't have enough _time! _Don't you _see_, Mark? I'm _twice _as old as Mimi, and I'm _still alive! _It's all _luck_, and you've got enough luck until all shit hits the fan. And that's all we'll _ever _have, is _luck! _It's all about _luck!_"

Collins was in hysterics, sobbing, still half-yelling when he ended the statement. Mark felt his heart shatter, staring at the strongest man he'd honestly ever met, he and Roger, been to hell and back, now standing in purgatory, going toward the former. "C-Collins," Mark's own voice cracked, "Collins... it's not about luck—"

"Yes it _is_, Mark, and you'll _never _see that. We're the people in the race who got a late start, and now we're stuck at the end. We're the ones who were _screwed _before we even goddamn

"Collins?" Mark said quietly, trying not to disturb his friend anymore than he already was. "Collins? I believe it was Atticus Finch who said that courage was knowing you were licked before you began. Was it not?"

"_What?_" Collins asked, staring at Mark with sincere confusion.

"I think it was Atticus Finch who said, 'Courage is not a man with a gun in his hand. It's knowing you're licked before you begin, but you begin anyway and see it through no matter what. You rarely win, but sometimes you do.' Now, correct me if I'm wrong—it could've been Jane Austen, but I'm thinking that good ol' Atticus Finch brought those words upon us."

"Mark... how many times did you read that damned book?"

"Enough to know the good quotes by heart, but, you're not getting the point," Mark sighed. "I don't have to had read the book to be sure that Atticus wasn't talking about frigging AIDS when he said that, judging by the last part—'You rarely win, but sometimes you do'—but, listen to the words. You are the most courageous man I know, you and Roger. You got AIDS, and you could've booked like April did, but you're sticking it out. You _know _you're fucked, but you live without fear."

"Forget regret," Collins whispered, wiping his tears away.

"Or life is yours to fucking miss," Mark finished, stalking toward Collins. "Don't you hear the pain behind that phrase? Don't you hear the desire for more time? They say life is short, I say fuck the length, just live your life the way you fucking want to and _don't look back. _Collins, you lived a _great _life, and you're a brilliant man. And on the other side of the goddamn rainbow, you've got the biggest goddamn pot of gold _and _a fucking angel waiting for you."

Mark was swearing a lot, he knew it was because he was trying to make a point to someone he wasn't sure was going to get it, and now he sat on the windowsill, head down, listening to Collins' vicious cough. It was getting worse. He knew it. How was everyone else so oblivious?

When he looked up, Collins had his hand away from his face, and he was doubled over. When Mark looked at his hand, his eyes widened to saucers and he gasped. Collins was coughing up blood.

A lot of it.

**A/N: **I absolutely love the way this came out, but I'm sad for poor Collins... he's the man. :(

"The Hill" is from the movie _Once_, in which the song "Falling Slowly" won the Oscar for the best song in a film. The music is really beautiful. :)

PLEASE review.

–Steph.

Oh, by the way—any good book recommendations? Something like Twilight, or even Catcher in the Rye, or maybe even To Kill a Mockingbird ;). Haha, or just something you really really loved. (Not Harry Potter... already read those.)


	24. Who Wants to Live Forever?

_There's no time for us, there's no place for us,  
__What is this thing that builds our dreams yet slips away from us?  
__Who wants to live forever, who wants to live forever?  
__There's no chance for us, it's all decided for us,  
__This world has only one sweet moment set aside for us.  
_"Who Wants to Live Forever?" Queen

It was the third time Mark had been in a hospital in the last two months, something that unnerved him greatly. First had been Mimi, who'd resulted in death, then Leah, who'd only had a cold, and Roger had overreacted, but now was Collins, diagnosed with acute bronchitis, a death sentence to anyone with HIV. Sighing, frustrated, Mark rubbed his hands across his face as the doctor droned on about Collins' condition. He never could understand hospital jargon, that was something Collins was better at.

The doctor was dodging the fact that Collins had a fatal disease for an AIDS victim, but Collins knew it all too well, though his face didn't read a syllable of it. He looked happy to be surviving, happy to be standing, happy to not be confined to a hospital bed like he'd been dreading. Not to say that Mark wasn't happy about it, too; he sure was. Mark couldn't afford to lose Collins, and that was the bottom line. He'd always been there to talk sense into Mark when he needed it the most, he'd been a great friend and would always be one of Mark's best.

Collins had been the one who'd bought Mark his knew camera after his previous had been smashed, and his life almost taken. On the card had been a note—_Mark: thank you for not dying, here's your consolation prize. Love, Collins_—and Mark had smiled and laughed, giving Collins a hug.

"You ready to go, man?" Collins' voice was low in Mark's ear, and the shorter man nodded slowly.

"You've got an entire parade waiting for you in the waiting room, you understand that, right?"

"Yeah." Collins sighed and placed his beanie on his head. He waved a small piece of paper in his hand. "Prescription. As if it's going to help things," he scoffed and kept his head staring at the dingy tiled floors. Mark stared up at Collins, wondering what exactly could be going through his mind. It wasn't every day you were handed a slip of paper with your death written on it.

"Slow things down," Mark offered, figuring that it was useless now to claim that Collins wasn't going to die. They knew it. There was proof in his hands. Thomas B. Collins was going to die, and there was nothing Mark could do to prevent it.

This was when the feeling of helplessness usually began to sink in—for Mimi, it had been when she was suddenly rushed to the hospital, for Angel, the slow deterioration of health, for April, the blood that still today stained the bathtub. And now it was Collins, walking slowly out of the emergency room doors, holding in his hand his "golden ticket."

He knew it was coming. He felt his spine stiffen, and his heart pick up pace, and the tightness at the back of his throat. However, how he ended up collapsed in the nearest chair in the hall, he was not sure, but that was the next place he was, sobbing.

Collins had almost launched himself into the chair next to Mark, and then strong arms were around the crying cameraman, whispering soothing words in his ear. "It's okay, Mark, it's really okay. It's going to be fine." No matter how many times Collins repeated it, Mark believed it less and less.

"**Okay, so judging **by the way Collins was coughing up blood," Roger calculated, pacing in the waiting room, "he's probably got... um..." he stopped. "Something that is _not _good."

There was silence, interrupted by Christian's loud clapping. "Very good calculations, brother," he rolled his eyes and leant back against his chair, rubbing a hand over his face.

Maureen, who was bouncing Leah on her lap, had ceased crying and was now sitting there, her face vacant of anything. "Bronchitis?" she put in, her voice a low whisper, and Joanne wrapped an arm around her girlfriend's shoulder. "That's got to be it," she murmured. "Remember before Angel went? She'd been coughing up blood... and the doctor said it was bronchitis, or something along those lines." She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply.

Roger turned his gaze from Maureen and locked in on Christian, who was shaking. When he'd had his home, he had been isolated from disease, maybe not completely but for the most part; he'd been isolated from pain, he'd been isolated from death. Now, in such a short time span, he'd been exposed to it to an alarming extent, and it was hitting him in a wave he was sure to drown in.

As Roger turned to sit next to Chris, Collins and Mark emerged from the room, Mark's face stained with tears, and Collins' impassive.

"So?" Roger questioned, wrapping an arm around Christian and turning to face Collins.

"The verdict?" he asked, strolling past them all and taking the empty seat between Roger and Maureen. When he sat, he put his right hand on Maureen's thigh, and then moved up and began to stroke Leah's foot, causing the little girl to giggle. It brought a smile to his face, and it stayed when he finally answered, "Bronchitis, of course."

Next to him, Maureen took in a sharp breath, and Collins turned to look at her, his face instantly warping into that of pain. "Before anyone gets upset... you're not allowed to be any angrier than I am. Please, I don't want you to worry... I'm okay with this, I'm at peace with... with what's to come. I'm perfectly fine with it, and I want you guys to be too."

Roger felt his insides twisting and constricting, listening to Collins' request as if it were astronomically impossible. Not nearly that, but it was still a difficult task for him to accomplish. Pretend as if Collins weren't dying? Pretend that he didn't see his very own probably death unfolding before him? Pretend that he wasn't losing a best friend?

It wasn't as easy as Collins made it sound, but he was going to try.

**A/N:** Aaaaaah.

Sorry I haven't updated in so long! Busy, busier, busiest. Well, _Guys and Dolls_' opening night is coming up soon, I'm really pumped. May. Uhm... my birthday was yesterday (and Rajah's, yaay!) Only it was probably the worst birthday I've ever had. Whatever, it happens. :)

It's not even a long update... but I tried.

Special thanks to **ElphabaTheDelirious117 **for pointing out that I never told you about Mark's new camera. :)

So, this story is definitely going to be tying to a close soon. I thank all of you reviewers sososososo much! But can you guys _keep _reviewing? Thanks!


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